#this man cannot exist on my account without at least a little blood

[flawlessstriker]

Tobirama Week 2024 Day 4 - Unhealed - Moon - Contract

@tbrmweek

[daimonclub]

Mark Twain reflections

Mark Twain reflections Mark Twain reflections, ideas, wise thoughts and literary social witty opinions on life, religion, people, society, life, death, power, soul, and many other topics. The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and starting on the first one. Mark Twain Work like you don't need the money. Dance like no one is watching. And love like you've never been hurt. Mark Twain The citizen who thinks he sees that the commonwealth's political clothes are worn out, and yet holds his peace and does not agitate for a new suit, is disloyal, he is a traitor. That he may be the only one who thinks he sees this decay, does not excuse him: it is his duty to agitate anyway, and it is the duty of others to vote him down if they do not see the matter as he does. Mark Twain My mind changes often ... People who have no mind can easily be steadfast and firm, but when a man is loaded down to the guards with it, as I am, every heavy sea of foreboding or inclination, maybe of indolence, shifts the cargo. Mark Twain You are not you - you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. I myself have no existence; I am but a dream - your dream, a creature of your imagination. In a moment you will have realized this, then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me. I am perishing already, I am failing, I am passing away. In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever - for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better! Mark Twain After a few months’ acquaintance with European “coffee,” one’s mind weakens, and his faith with it, and he begins to wonder if the rich beverage of home, with its clotted layer of yellow cream on top of it, is not a mere dream after all, and a thing which never existed. Mark Twain People who always feel jolly, no matter where they are or what happens to them - who have the organ of hope preposterously developed - who are endowed with an uncongealable sanguine temperament - who never feel concerned about the price of corn - and who cannot, by any possibility, discover any but the bright side of a picture - are very apt to go to extremes, and exaggerate with 40-horse microscopic power. Mark Twain

Mark Twain wise thought Why was the human race created? Or at least why wasn't something creditable created in place of it? God had His opportunity. He could have made a reputation. But no, He must commit this grotesque folly -- a lark which must have cost Him a regret or two when He came to think it over and observe effects. There are those who imagine that the unlucky accidents of life - life's "experiences" - are in some way useful to us. I wish I could find out how. I never know one of them to happen twice. They always change off and swap around and catch you on your inexperienced side. Mark Twain But who prays for Satan? Who in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most, our one fellow and brother who most needed a friend yet had not a single one, the one sinner among us all who had the highest and clearest right to every Christian's daily and nightly prayers, for the plain and unassailable reason that his was the first and greatest need, he being among sinners the supremest? Mark Twain Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime. Mark Twain So far as anybody actually knows and can prove, Shakespeare of Stratford-on-Avon never wrote a play in his life.” “Shall I set down the rest of the Conjectures which constitute the giant Biography of William Shakespeare? It would strain the Unabridged Dictionary to hold them. He is a Brontosaur: nine bones and six hundred barrels of plaster of Paris. Mark Twain Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it – namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign. Mark Twain Isn’t it odd, when you think of it, that you may list all of the celebrated Englishmen, Irishmen, Scotchmen clear back to the first Tudors – a list of five hundred names, shall we say? – and you can learn the particulars of the lives of every one of them. Every one of them except one - the most famous, the most renowned – by far the most illustrious of them all – Shakespeare! Mark Twain I notice that you use plain, simple language, short words and brief sentences. That is the way to write English, it is the modern way and the best way. Stick to it; don't let fluff and flowers and verbosity creep in. When you catch an adjective, kill it. No, I don't mean utterly, but kill most of them, then the rest will be valuable. They weaken when they are close together. They give strength when they are wide apart. An adjective habit, or a wordy, diffuse, flowery habit, once fastened upon a person, is as hard to get rid of as any other vice. Mark Twain In religion and politics people’s beliefs and convictions are in almost every case gotten at second-hand, and without examination, from authorities who have not themselves examined the questions at issue but have taken them at second-hand from other non-examiners, whose opinions about them were not worth a brass farthing. Mark Twain What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, not those of other things, are his history. These are his life, and they are not written. Everyday would make a whole book of 80,000 words - 365 books a year. Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of the man -- the biography of the man himself cannot be written. Mark Twain

Mark Twain witty quote There is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a Dream, a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And You are but a Thought - a vagrant Thought, a useless Thought, a homeless Thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities. Mark Twain The so-called Christian nations are the most enlightened and progressive ... but in spite of their religion, not because of it. The Church has opposed every innovation and discovery from the day of Galileo down to our own time, when the use of anesthetic in childbirth was regarded as a sin because it avoided the biblical curse pronounced against Eve. And every step in astronomy and geology ever taken has been opposed by bigotry and superstition. The Greeks surpassed us in artistic culture and in architecture five hundred years before Christian religion was born. Mark Twain Thanksgiving Day, a function which originated in New England two or three centuries ago when those people recognized that they really had something to be thankful for - annually, not oftener - if they had succeeded in exterminating their neighbors, the Indians, during the previous twelve months instead of getting exterminated by their neighbors, the Indians. Thanksgiving Day became a habit, for the reason that in the course of time, as the years drifted on, it was perceived that the exterminating had ceased to be mutual and was all on the white man's side, consequently on the Lord's side; hence it was proper to thank the Lord for it and extend the usual annual compliments. Mark Twain Unconsciously we all have a standard by which we measure other men, and if we examine closely we find that this standard is a very simple one, and is this: we admire them, we envy them, for great qualities we ourselves lack. Hero worship consists in just that. Our heroes are men who do things which we recognize, with regret, and sometimes with a secret shame, that we cannot do. We find not much in ourselves to admire, we are always privately wanting to be like somebody else. If everybody was satisfied with himself, there would be no heroes. Mark Twain Man is the Reasoning Animal. Such is the claim. I think it is open to dispute. Indeed, my experiments have proven to me that he is the Unreasoning Animal... In truth, man is incurably foolish. Simple things which other animals easily learn, he is incapable of learning. Among my experiments was this. In an hour I taught a cat and a dog to be friends. I put them in a cage. In another hour I taught them to be friends with a rabbit. In the course of two days I was able to add a fox, a goose, a squirrel and some doves. Finally a monkey. They lived together in peace; even affectionately. Mark Twain Spiritual wants and instincts are as various in the human family as are physical appetites, complexions, and features, and a man is only at his best, morally, when he is equipped with the religious garment whose color and shape and size most nicely accomodate themselves to the spiritual complexion, angularities, and stature of the individual who wears it. Mark Twain O, Switzerland! the further it recedes into the enriching haze of time, the more intolerably delicious the charm of it and the cheer of it and the glory and majesty and solemnity and pathos of it grow. Those mountains had a soul; they thought; they spoke, - one couldn't hear it with the ears of the body, but what a voice it was! - and how real. Deep down in my memory it is sounding yet. Mark Twain Man is a Religious Animal. He is the only Religious Animal. He is the only animal that has the True Religion--several of them. He is the only animal that loves his neighbor as himself and cuts his throat if his theology isn't straight. He has made a graveyard of the globe in trying his honest best to smooth his brother's path to happiness and heaven....The higher animals have no religion. And we are told that they are going to be left out in the Hereafter. I wonder why? It seems questionable taste. Mark Twain A man's house burns down. The smoking wreckage represents only a ruined home that was dear through years of use and pleasant associations. By and by, as the days and weeks go on, first he misses this, then that, then the other thing. And when he casts about for it he finds that it was in that house. Always it is an essential - there was but one of its kind. It cannot be replaced. It was in that house. It is irrevocably lost. It will be years before the tale of lost essentials is complete, and not till then can he truly know the magnitude of his disaster. Mark Twain

Mark Twain great thoughts The true charm of pedestrianism does not lie in the walking, or in the scenery, but in the talking. The walking is good to time the movement of the tongue by, and to keep the blood and the brain stirred up and active; the scenery and the woodsy smells are good to bear in upon a man an unconscious and unobtrusive charm and solace to eye and soul and sense; but the supreme pleasure comes from the talk. Mark Twain Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. Mark Twain An average English word is four letters and a half. By hard, honest labor I've dug all the large words out of my vocabulary and shaved it down till the average is three and a half... I never write "metropolis" for seven cents, because I can get the same money for "city." I never write "policeman," because I can get the same price for "cop."... I never write "valetudinarian" at all, for not even hunger and wretchedness can humble me to the point where I will do a word like that for seven cents; I wouldn't do it for fifteen. Mark Twain The kernel, the soul - let us go further and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable material of all human utterances - is plagiarism. For substantially all ideas are second-hand, consciously and unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources, and daily used by the garnerer with a pride and satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas there is not a rag of originality about them anywhere except the little discoloration they get from his mental and moral calibre and his temperament, and which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing. Mark Twain The common eye sees only the outside of things, and judges by that, but the seeing eye pierces through and reads the heart and the soul, finding there capacities which the outside didn't indicate or promise, and which the other kind couldn't detect. Mark Twain You can also read: Mark Twain great quotes Quotes by authors Quotes by arguments Thoughts and reflections Essays with quotes Read the full article

[fascination-street-writing]

The Sea Isn’t Green, and I Love This Dream | Risotto Nero x Reader

Subtitled “Keep Smoking - I Still Love You”

If you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

- 2020 Holiday Gift - A Continuation of Sober to Death -

Content Warnings: Incidental Stalking, Unhealthy Smoking Habits, Past Relationships, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Angst, Regret, & Referenced Child Abuse

It is the summer of 1998. Risotto has not left his apartment in days, for he has found no reason to; there have been no new contracts, no paperwork in need of filing, and no immediate issues with the newest recruit. But today, he will venture out under the brazen sun and purchase groceries for the upcoming week. If not for the matter of his own sustenance, it will at least keep Prosciutto off his back. As if it is any of the blonde man’s business whether his Capo is eating adequately or not.

As he coasts through the aisles, searching for pre-packaged dried pasta, jarred sauce, and some kind of fresh vegetable – because Prosciutto said so –, he feels the condescending, fearful stares of patrons without needing to acknowledge them. If it is not for his stature, then certainly the peculiar coloring of his eyes. However, the ogling no longer bothers him, simply because he does not let it; after all, he is no longer the boy who once lived in Palermo.

There is a sale on pre-sliced bread. Yet, even after the discount, the name-brand loaf is still more expensive than the off-brand. He settles for the latter. It all tastes the same to him, anyways. And if he can save a thousand lire, then it is all the better. Prosciutto, he supposes, would disagree and insist that the off-brand bread is cheaper for a reason. Risotto is reminded of exactly why he does not live with the man anymore. But he still makes a conscious effort to buy fresh produce.

Basket filled, Risotto heads towards the check-out line. He knows that he has neglected to grab a bag of oranges, as denoted by the crumpled list in his hand, and he does not intend to return for them. The carton of berries and fresh figs he found along the way will be enough. Though, he does loathe forgetfulness.

The line, as he discovers and much to his dismay, is backed up. The brevity of the situation is simply that the grocery store has been understaffed as of late. Something about gang-violence and an attempted robbery – nothing that concerns him or his men. A person in his line of work fears little. Or at least, that is the theory. His thoughts linger to the new recruit, whom Prosciutto has taken under his guidance. He has always had more patience than Risotto regarding such matters.

The young Capo has lost track of exactly how long he has stood in line. Denoted by the telling grumbles of an older man behind him and the pleading of his wife to calm down, Risotto knows that it has been a while, and unreasonably so. Glancing down at his basket, a questionable consideration comes to his impatient mind: it would not be difficult to slip away, shroud himself with his Stand, and leave the grocery store with his would-be stolen goods.

It is certainly nothing to lose sleep over. In the end, however, he decides against it. Perhaps to salvage his honor and dignity, otherwise challenged by the temptation of petty thievery. Or perhaps because the line has finally moved, and it is too late to back out now. There are only two customers ahead of him now. In moments such as this, he likes to pretend that he is normal – that he might be shopping for a family that waits for him in a home somewhere in the suburbs of Napoli.

But these times have passed, and although only a man of twenty-five, he is complacent with the life as a ceaseless bachelor. A hitman does not make for a good husband, nor a father. In retrospect, Risotto hardly believes that he would want to become either. At least, not anymore.

“Merda,” the woman at the front of the line groans. She sets down the wad of cash in her hand. “I’m ₤15,000 short. Can you just put the oil back? And the sardines.”

The grocery clerk is decent at masking his annoyance with a tight smile and curt nod. It is a commendable skill, though there is room for improvement, Risotto thinks. “God, I’m so sorry. I just moved here for a new job, and my money still hasn’t transferred over to my new bank account. I should’ve taken more cash out to begin with.”

The next woman reaches into her purse and produces a neatly folded stack of lira. She taps the shoulder of the first woman, who turns. In this moment, Risotto believes he has been pummeled through the stomach. There is no other explanation to the tightening of his chest, and the heavy beating of his heart.

There you stand, as beautiful as ever, despite your apparent vexation at your own foolishness. The money quickly passes from the kind woman’s palm to that of the cashier. “Grazie, signora,” you tell her.

At first, Risotto feels nothing, as if he cannot process that which he sees before him. And then, regret – pure and unadulterated. He does not hear what the woman says to you, because the thrum of his mind has made him deaf to everything except for the ringing of his ears. You have not noticed him, unlike every other customer in the establishment, and he would like to keep it that way. You accept the bag of groceries from the cashier, but Risotto does not stick around to see it. He has already pushed past the perturbed husband and wife behind him, with every intention of finding a new line to stand in. He does not care how tedious it will be to make it out of the store. He does not care if the tub of gelato in his basket melts, or if the berries turn to mush.

Risotto will do anything to spare the fleeting glance of the only woman whom he ever loved. And if that means waiting another twenty minutes, then by god, he will wait.

He wonders, as he sits in his office with a blazing cigarette dangling from his lips, if you still smoke. In truth, he has always known that you only ever did it to impress him. He wishes you would not have indulged in this solidary habit – in fact, he wishes you had not done a lot of things, like becoming his closest friend and adolescent savior. His first kiss, or his first lament in the pitfall of countless others.

Clouds cling to the ceiling, seeping into the walls and furniture. If his landlord were not so intimidated by Risotto, then surely the parsimonious man might evict him for ruining the apartment with the stench of cigarettes and the occasional blood stain on the carpet. He supposes that he ought to at least open the window. Just beyond his reach atop the desk is his computer. If he wants to, he can find out every miniscule detail of your adult life and more that has collected over the past seven years, since the moment he left you a young, broken woman who did not mourn him. Every bank transaction, gas receipt, and occasional splurge for an object attributed to various degrees of pleasure – where you are working, where you live, and why you have come back to haunt him.

It is none of his concern, and he does not have the right to pry; not after the hurt he has done unto you, back when you were still two lovers who were, well, in love. He hopes you have found some semblance of happiness, and he will not impede on whatever that may be. But, like an incurable ailment, confliction strikes him. Indeed, he told himself that it is not his guile to cause you further grief. And yet, Risotto yearns for you all over again.

All this time spent living in a world wherein he does not exist to you, how often did thoughts of him cross your mind? Did you think of his ghastly red eyes whenever you have welcomed a new paramour into your bed, and compare the sizes of their hands to his? Did you think of him each time you drove that hand-me-down junker of your father’s, avoiding the backseat like the plague until the engine finally died and you had no choice but to purchase a new car? How long did it take you to scrub out the stains from the upholstery and your skin?

As it were, keeping the distance between you two is effortless. But unearthing unhealed wounds, all in some venture of self-retribution to heal them right, is just as inviting. There is simply too much that might go wrong again – the risks, far too great. Dissociation has served him well enough thus far. Surely, he can keep it up, this manneristic habit of his. It is funny, he finds; that as teenagers, you had once promised that you would always be there for him. It was an undeserving luxury, and one that he often took for granted. Now, though he recognizes in his heart that he still needs you, he wants you gone. For his sake or yours, he knows not.  

But it would be nice to be held by you, one last time.

Breaking self-promises, like stepping on broken glass just to hear the crack, is an addiction. You are an addiction, and it was only a matter of time before Risotto had found himself in your company more often than he ought to. In any instance, he avoids your radar, and remarkably so. And yet, the tenacity of your existence drives him mad, and he finds himself asking – perchance under the steady trickle of water in the shower or as he lies in bed at night – if you are truly there, or nothing more than an apparition brought forth from his guilty conscious. That, though now he sees you comparing dress fabrics at the boutique across the street, it is conceivably not truly you but rather another woman – a stranger – with the same color hair.

Alas, you exist in both dreams and materiality.

Each moment that he stumbles upon you, from a respectable distance, he notices something irrevocably new: scuffed Mary Janes exchanged for pointed and polished kitten heels, and pleated skirts swapped for hand-tailored dress pants, creased to suggest your sophistication. As for him, he still wears torn jeans when in public. Unless of course, he is working – then it is a pair of striped pants reminiscent of a caricatured prison inmate’s uniform.

He notices, too, the greater attention taken to your hairstyling and makeup. Maturity is becoming of you, but he always thought you were pretty, even before you had learned how to properly apply eyeshadow and lip gloss. Your clumpy mascara never vied to drive him away. In fact, he rather liked it, but only because it was unapologetically you.

He does not mean to follow you to a café after you leave the boutique, arms cradling several shopping bags amongst your purse and a chic leather briefcase. Invisible to the human eye, Risotto falls in step at your side, so close that he can smell your perfume. It is no longer the olfactory copycat of whatever Versace musk you had always begged your mother to buy for you from the drugstore just down the street from your childhood home. Whatever it is now is unfamiliar, albeit comforting.

The café is quiet at this point in the afternoon. The baristas chatter amongst themselves at the counter, and the ambience music humming through the wall speakers is not unpleasant, although not entirely enjoyable, either. Unbeknownst to you, Risotto takes the seat across from you at the corner booth nearest to the window. It must be a coveted spot, he deduces, for the lighting here is impeccable. Mindful of the blackened coffee atop the table, you open your suitcase and produce a neatly pressed stack of photographs, clothing sketches, and glamour shots.

He observes all of it, and only then does he realize that the new career you spoke of to the grocery store clerk is one in the field of fashion design. And what better city in all of Italia to pursue such a thing than Napoli? He wishes he could have been there to witness the bloom of your success, first-hand – and more, he yearns to exist alone at your side for every last day that you both should live.

All of this at nothing more than your expense. Truly, something impermissibly unforgiveable, if he knew that his baggage – if his very being – is enough to hold you back from everything you deserve. It is why he left. At least now, he can see that his grievous mistake was not for naught.

Your coffee has gone cold. Too focused on correcting shading issues in your blueprints and selecting models for an upcoming show, you have neglected it. Did you even need the coffee, or was it just a show of your poise? How would you react, Risotto wonders, if he were to bring you a fresh cup and allow you to see him? Would you thank him – hug him even? Or scream, kick him away, and throw the scalding hot beverage in his face. He should pray for the former, though the latter would be the easiest to cope with. Because, if you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

He imagines what it must be like to be a part of your new life. He wants nothing more than to reach across the table, to place his shaken palm over the manicured hand clasped around the red felt-tip pen, and ask how your day has been. And the day before. And the day before even then. You might drop the pen too, only to lace your fingers with his and grin. “It’s been great, Ris,” you would say. “Really great, but even better now.”

Instead, you scribble notes in the margins with that same hand and tap your foot to the steady beat of music. How wonderful it must be for those who are capable of picking up where they once left off a lifetime ago. If, after all this time, you are so inclined to adore him again, then you must be the most winsome little fool in the world – but his, nonetheless.

Risotto cannot recall when last he received a contract from the Don, assigned explicitly to the silver-haired man. And so, rather than cooping himself away in the confines of his apartment, smoking until his stomach lurches and he might faint, he roams the city, pegging to the chance that he might find you. The fresh air – as fresh as the air in Napoli can possibly be – is good for him, anyways.

This afternoon, he finds you leaving the post office whilst balancing a packed cardboard box with outstretched arms. You are dressed down, just as he supposes that most normal people do on their days off. Curiosity baits him, like a bobble in the ocean; he shrouds himself and follows you up the cobblestone street ramp, past a row of municipal buildings, down the winding path behind one of many shopping plazas, and directly into the living room of your apartment. He never meant to get this far.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop a wrought-iron accent table placed beside an oak bookshelf containing more decorative figurines and houseplants than actual books. Certainly, your taste in music has not changed. Neither has your preference for caramel-scented candles. For a moment – ever so fleeting – he is a teenage boy again, standing just before bedroom window with his knuckles poised to rapt against the glass. He never told you, for he hid it well behind a stony expression, just how nervous he always felt before visiting you.

More than anything else in his adolescent life, he had feared that one day, you would turn him away. He scarcely cared when his mother verbalized her disgust and chastisement of the boy, or if his father struck him with the belt of his work jeans. Because, in the end, the abuse always gave him a reason to see you. You were his optimistic little silver lining,

Although your sense in interior design is far more elegant than your parents ever fancied, Risotto feels like he is finally home again. It must be the music and the candle – or perhaps it is just the grace of your presence in the setting of domesticity. You set the box on the coffee table and disappear into the kitchen, only to reappear with a stainless-steel knife. He understands his unwarranted intrusion, but just as he makes his way towards the door to leave, your cellphone rings.

“Ciao, Mamma!” you say as you switch to speakerphone. There is only static until your mother speaks to you.

She still sounds the same, though the strain of age weighs heavily on her tone. Suddenly, Risotto is throwing rocks at your window in the nighttime, avoiding the parched tithonias of your father’s garden with his battered sneakers. But this time, it is not you who beckons him in – it is your mother and her infectious altruism that he coveted because she cherished him more than his own mother ever did. She leads him to the dining room table, where you and your father wait, and presents to him a plate of pasta con le sarde.

“Ciao, bambina. Did you get that package I sent yet?”

No questions asked, unless only to inquire if he would like more to drink, or perhaps a second serving; your mother always made extra just in case he needed to get away from home for the night, or if his parents forgot to feed him. He misses his family – his real one, which he thwarted away for trifling revenge. The mere thought of it all sends pangs through his chest, and he thinks he has forgotten how to breathe properly. His mind veers into nothingness, but he knows that everything hurts.

“Mhm! It came today, actually. I’m opening it now.”

Petrified, he watches from across the room as you slice through the packing tape and begin sorting through the box’s contents – assorted bobbles and trinkets of your childhood that were unintentionally left behind after you had moved to Napoli. A few CDs, family photographs, and a work of ceramics-class pottery that had not survived its journey from Palermo. You do not seem bothered by it. Instead, you sweep away the fragmented pieces into a neat pile.

At the very bottom of the box is a scrapbook, ragged from the years of diligent pondering. Several of its pages have stuck together from excess globs of crafting glue. Risotto remembers your endearing hobby, and how embarrassed you had always been to show him your collection. And so, he never asked to see them, though not because he lacked the interest. It must be true that a person is shaped by their early experiences – you spent your youth collaging models with pretty clothes from the pages of magazines; now, you are a considerably successful fashion designer, given your age. Meanwhile, Risotto murdered a man at eighteen – and now, seven years later, he is Passione’s lead hitman. At least he is good at his job, too.

“Uh oh, that didn’t sound good. Don’t tell me that vase broke. I knew I should’ve wrapped it.”

Your dear mother: forgetful and heedless on occasion, though honest by it. You peel the scrapbook open and perch it on your lap, mindful of the delicate spine. Loose bits of glitter trickle from the pages and stick to your pants. Next falls a photograph, separated from the family ones, and wedged away for safe keeping. It is a still-shot of you and Risotto.

“Don’t worry about it! I can just glue it back together.”

However, to be honest, the vase is beyond repair; you have lied to your mother to soothe her guilt. Risotto’s attention has been taken by the photograph on the floor. There, you both sit on the floral-patterned couch that used to adorn your parents’ living room. You lean on his shoulder, beaming to the camera, as he stares ahead, stagnant. Truly, he wanted to smile and to throw his arm around you. He refrained; he did not want to look weak in front of your mother, who had taken the photograph that day.

Because his father never let him forget the vulnerability of emotions.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Listen, dolce, I’ve got to go. Tuo padre needs help in the workshop. But I’ll call you later. Ti amo, ti amo!”

In this moment, he lets his guard down, albeit inadvertently so. Metallica dissipates, and for the first time in what feels like forever – or at least, far too many years worth counting – Risotto Nero surmises that he might cry. As opposed to when you were both still young, it will be easier to run away now: no confrontation, and none of that selfish heartbreak. The gap between him and the door may be closed in two strides. In two strides, he will leave you again, for evermore. And even when he is gone, he will keep telling himself that this is for the best.

“Ti amo, Mamma.”

You reach down for the photograph. You had not meant to let it fall, though you suppose there is little use of it now, if not to keep it as a memento of your own perpetual loss. You dust it off and shake away the green and gold specks of glitter that adhere to the lamination. When the floorboards creak, you look up and meet the pleading gaze of the man whom you think you hate, and whom you think you love. You are good at pretending to do either. And thus, as you both wait in brooding quietude, you know not whether to call the police or to hurry into his arms. You are still, frozen in time – frozen in life.

As for Risotto, he longs for cicadas and katydids to break the terse silence that looms between you two.

Or maybe, just a cigarette.

| 3724 Words |

[merakilyy]

Inconceivable

By no means does Lan Qiren like Wei Wuxian. Of course not. But yelling at Wei Wuxian is a pastime for him to enjoy alone and it is a grievous insult for Sect Leader Yao to take that joy away from him.

Aka: how Lan Qiren, of all people, ended up defending Wei Wuxian in front of everyone.

Tags: Wangxian, post-canon, canon compliant, fluffy humour

(On AO3) Word count: about 3100

~~~

These days, Lan Qiren has mostly retired from the day to day business of running a sect. For all his nephews’ past errors in judgement, they have been raised well and are leading a thriving Gusu. With the future of the Sect secure, Lan Qiren now spends his days terrorizing the junior disciples, having meditative teas with the Gusu Lan elders, and avoiding Wei Wuxian at all costs.

It is a fine way to live.

Avoiding Wei Wuxian is not difficult. He is wherever the noise is. Minor explosions in the Jingshi have become commonplace as Wei Wuxian tests new talismans and invents new tools for night hunting and releasing resentful spirits.

Yet for all his faults, of which there are a great many, Lan Qiren finds it increasingly difficult to retain his burning hatred of Wei Wuxian when he is just so useful.

Beyond his capacity to churn out invention after invention, Wei Wuxian is an excellent instructor both in class and on nighthunts in the field. Lan Qiren has noticed how the junior disciples assigned to Wei Wuxian’s lectures are able to successfully perform more advanced maneuvers beyond their expected cultivation level. Their essays are of a higher level and clearly demonstrate a deeper understanding of theories of spiritual cultivation. Certainly, this advanced standard was expected of Lan Sizhui but Lan Qiren found this improvement in each of the junior disciples. Even Lan Jingyi had become a good student.

Wei Wuxian could even make Lan Jingyi sit still for longer than fifteen minutes.

Faced with such facts, even Lan Qiren has to set aside his burning dislike of Wei Wuxian and admit that Wei Wuxian is one of the most valuable members of the Gusu Lan Sect.

Also, Wei Wuxian makes Wangji the happiest Lan Qiren has ever seen him. And Lan Qiren has learned his lesson when it comes to questioning Wangji’s devotion.

So, as long as Wei Wuxian continues to make Wangji happy, Lan Qiren will continue to tolerate his existence. Only for Wangji, of course.

There are many days where Lan Qiren longs for the days before Wei Wuxian returned. He longs for the days when the aura of Cloud Recesses was serene and sedate. He misses the tranquility of the past. He has requested that Wangji at least limit Wei Wuxian’s experimentation to the back mountains where they will not disturb the others. But his younger nephew is ridiculously infatuated with Wei Wuxian and cannot deny the man anything so the noise remains.

It makes Lan Qiren’s blood boil but Wei Wuxian is just so incredibly useful.

Lan Qiren knows that Jiang Wanyin would like Wei Wuxian to return to Yunmeng, even if only for part of the year, and that Jin Rulan would like Wei Wuxian to join him in Lanling to help him clean up the mess left behind by Jin Guangyao but Wei Wuxian is a member of Gusu Lan now. He has officially married into Gusu Lan and even has his own forehead ribbon (that Wangji wears after their ribbons were exchanged as per Gusu marriage ritual) and Lan Qiren isn’t letting Wei Wuxian go anywhere. Because he is useful. No other reasons.

Definitely not because Wei Wuxian’s specific brand of chaos is growing on him.

Rarely does Lan Qiren attend discussion conferences now. Even if many cultivators still look up to him, his presence is no longer necessary. Cloud Recesses has produced many respectable cultivators who represent Gusu Lan with honour. Many of the cultivators from other Sects have also been taught by Lan Qiren; he does not need to present to instill fear into others.

Yet, as Cloud Recesses was hosting this year’s Roundtable Discussion, Lan Qiren found himself curious as to what changes had been made since the last discussion he participated in when Jin Guangyao was still the Chief Cultivator.

And, since Wei Wuxian had single handedly organized this entire conference, Lan Qiren may have been just the slightest bit curious as to how it would turn out.

Regardless of his reasoning, Lan Qiren was well within his rights to participate in the discussion despite the apprehensive look Wangji gave him when he requested a seat.

As Lan Qiren settles at his table, he watches his nephews as they welcome each Sect into Cloud Recesses’ main reception hall. His nephews are the embodiment of decorum and Lan Qiren feels a subtle pride at watching his nephews masterfully carry out their duties. Still, he pretends he doesn’t see how Wangji glares as they greet Sect Leader Jiang or how Xichen tenses when Sect Leader Nie arrives. The young Sect Leader Jin complains about having to leave his dog behind but a single look from Wangji silences the boy mid sentence. More amicably, Xichen gently reminds Sect Leader Jin that “pets are forbidden in Cloud Recesses.”

In the background, he sees Wei Wuxian running around with Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui quickly walking after him, making last minute adjustments and throwing purifying talismans around the room. Wei Wuxian floats around the room in his white Gusu Lan robes, Wangji’s original forehead ribbon tied snugly in his hair. Most of the time Wei Wuxian wears his plain black and red robes and Lan Qiren has learned to accept that. Begrudgingly. But, Wangji was adamant that Wei Wuxian attend intersect meetings as an official representative of Gusu Lan and therefore he must dress the part.

Wei Wuxian’s red hair ribbon is wrapped around Wangji’s wrist, under his sleeve, and Lan Qiren chooses to pretend he never sees the flashes of red silk when Wangji moves his arms.

Lan Qiren watches as Wei Wuxian pauses by a table and bends over to pick up the cup. Wei Wuxian frowns as if the cup has offended him and hands it to Lan Sizhui. Wei Wuxian says something Lan Qiren can’t hear but he sees Lan Sizhui nod once before taking the cup away. Sizhui returns shortly afterwards with a new cup which he passes to Wei Wuxian. After studying the cup and nodding approvingly, Wei Wuxian sets the cup back down on the table and continues fluttering around the room.

For all his bluster as a guest disciple, and as the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wuxian had always been a hard worker.

(He pretends he doesn’t see Wei Wuxian leave a peony tied to a little note on Wangji’s desk at the front of the hall.)

The conference itself is largely uneventful. They proceed point by point through the agenda without any major hiccups until Sect Leader Jin pushes forward his proposal. What Sect Leader Jin wants is for each Sect to encourage their junior disciples to participate in night hunts in small border villages to vanquish low level spirits and minor monsters. This will bolster the training of the youth and give them more practical experience, Jin Rulan argues, as well as help impoverished communities who cannot afford a senior cultivator.

It is a good idea, Lan Qiren has to admit.

“Preposterous!” Sect Leader Yao interjects rather rudely. It is clear he views Jin Ling as a weakness to be exploited for the benefit of his own Sect, even though it should be equally clear that Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian would never allow that to happen. “This will only encourage more penniless children to train as cultivators.”

“So!?” Sect Leader Jin fires back. Lan Qiren’s brows furrow at Jin Rulan’s insolence. How unfortunate that Jin Rulan became Sect Leader before he could come to Cloud Recesses as a guest disciple. “Then we have more people who can release resentful spirits.”

“This child,” Sect Leader Yao shakes his finger at Sect Leader Jin, as if disciplining a misbehaving child. Jiang Wanyin’s ever-present frown deepens. The hand that brandishes Zidian is clenched in a fist though Jiang Wanyin says nothing. Despite his youth, Sect Leader Jin can hold his own. “He really has no manners! If only his parents survived to teach him better.”

Suddenly Lan Qiren is reminded why he no longer takes part in these conferences.

Beside him, Lan Qiren sees how Wei Wuxian’s previously respectable posture wilts. Instinctively, Lan Qiren wants to snap at Wei Wuxian to sit properly but he also notices how Wangji’s focus has shifted away from Sect Leader Yao and Sect Leader Jin. Instead, Wangji is watching Wei Wuxian, brow subtly furrowed with worry.

“Sect Leader Yao,” a high ranking member of Lanling Jin speaks out, “watch your words! Our Sect Leader has done you no insult!”

“You misunderstand,” Sect Leader Yao shakes his head disparagingly, as if it is tiresome to have to explain himself. “I do not blame young Jin Rulan for the unfortunate death of his late parents. If only Wei Wuxian had not killed Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli,” Sect Leader Yao pauses to sigh dramatically. Lan Qiren can feel the beginnings of a migraine. “I always said that Jiang Fengmian was too soft, that the son of a servant could never amount to anything worthwhile.”

Lan Qiren sees Wangji’s eyes harden almost imperceptibly. He sees how Wei Wuxian winces, how his entire body tenses. Behind them, Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi share concerned glances.

To Lan Qiren’s surprise, it is Jiang Wanyin who speaks in defense of Wei Wuxian. “Sect Leader Yao, I will thank you not to disparage the name of my late father and martial brother. Yunmeng Jiang exists today only on account of Wei Wuxian’s extraordinary sacrifices. Despite his practices, Wei Wuxian walks a noble path and it has been established that Su Minshan was responsible for the incident at Qiongqi Path.”

Wei Wuxian looks as surprised as Lan Qiren feels. A cursory glance around the room shows that they aren’t alone in their shock.

Sect Leader Yao sneers. “As if someone who plays with wicked tricks and desecrates the dead could ever be righteous. Surely one who willfully performs such heinous acts cannot be compared to true virtuous cultivators as myself.”

“Sneering for no reason is forbidden.” Lan Qiren calmly recites the rule from the Wall of Discipline. Although Gusu Lan has always been lenient towards transgressions of their tenets by visiting sects during meetings, Lan Qiren is well within his rights to remind Sect Leader Yao that they are in Cloud Recesses, that he is disrespecting Gusu Lan’s practices, and that he is being discourteous to the Chief Cultivator’s spouse.

Lan Qiren continues listing the rules violated by Sect Leader Yao. “Do not praise yourself and slander others. Do not take advantage of your position to oppress others. Do not insult others. Do not make assumptions about others.” He pauses momentarily, well aware that the entire room is stunned. Even before he stepped back from intersect diplomacy, Lan Qiren had taken the standard Gusu Lan approach of playing the silent observer and mediating conflicts. Looking directly at Sect Leader Yao, Lan Qiren finishes with, “Be respectful of others.”

He is received with silence. Unbothered, Lan Qiren pours himself a cup of tea with the tea set he watched Wei Wuxian painstakingly set up and personally prepare earlier that morning. Taking a sip, he notes that Wei Wuxian has -- annoyingly -- chosen an excellent brew and has even thought to use a talisman to keep the tea shimmering at just the right temperature.

It is difficult to despise someone who is just so competent.

As Lan Qiren is pouring himself a second cup of tea, one of Sect Leader Yao’s underlings pipes up. “You defend an immoral adherent of the heretical path! Wei Wuxian is a scourge amongst us! He is no cultivator, only the son of a servant who has turned his back on righteousness!”

“Enough,” Lan Qiren says firmly. He is not loud, but his words reverberate around the room.

Everyone is openly staring at him now, even his nephews. Especially his nephews. Xichen looks like he is convinced Lan Qiren is going through a qi derivation. Wangji’s expression flickers between concern and incredulity as his eyes bounce between his husband and his uncle. Lan Qiren pointedly refuses to look beside him to see Wei Wuxian’s expression.

Even Lan Qiren has to admit that he is surprised at himself. Not for speaking out -- Gusu Lan has never condoned insulting one’s character over personal grievances. Even at the height of his hatred for Wei Wuxian, Lan Qiren could understand that Wei Wuxian made decisions that he deemed to be righteous even if his methods were reprehensible. But, Lan Qiren was surprised to find himself speaking out in defense of Wei Wuxian.

Hearing Lan Jingyi’s loud whispers to Lan Sizhui behind him, Lan Qiren makes a mental note to assign more handstands.

With everyone stunned speechless at the turn of events, Lan Qiren continues, “Wei Wuxian is an invaluable member of Gusu Lan. We cannot stand by and allow such a grievous insult to go unacknowledged.”

Lan Qiren takes another sip of his tea. Still excellent, still at the optimal temperature. How infuriating, that Wei Wuxian has become the only one to serve passable tea at these conferences.

Someone from Baling Ouyang whom Lan Qiren does not recognize looks like he wants to voice his disagreements. Lan Qiren simply allows his gaze to bore into the Baling cultivator until the man looks away, ashamed.

“An insult to the Chief Cultivator’s spouse is an affront to Gusu Lan,” Lan Qiren says with finality, slowly turning his head as he speaks to ensure everyone understands the weight behind his words. “We will not stand by and condone such disparagement.”

He ignores the wet sniffle that comes from Wei Wuxian.

Behind him, Lan Jingyi’s whispers grow even louder. Lan Qiren hears Lan SIzhui trying to shush Lan Jingyi in vain. More handstands, he thinks. Perhaps some lines.

Jiang Wanyin gives Wei Wuxian an accusatory glare, as if Wei Wuxian replaced the real Lan Qiren with a doppelganger and was holding the real Lan Qiren hostage in the back mountains.

Wangji simply looks down at the scrolls on his desk with a pleased smile gracing his lips.

No one is in any rush to fill in the silence that has overwhelmed the hall. Sect Leader Yao looks adequately chastened for his denigrating remarks toward Wei Wuxian. Lan Qiren suspects everyone else is too scared to speak now.

Good , he thinks. Silence begets reflection.

In the end, it is Xichen who redirects the discussion to the matter at hand. “I am in agreement with Sect Leader Jin,“ Xichen says. “We cannot ignore the likelihood that it is the very insular nature of our community that contributed to Jin Guangyao’s actions. I cannot and do not forgive him for murdering a sworn brother but his circumstances were always regrettable. We turned our back on him before he ever turned his back on us. With the increased need for cultivators, we may consider opening cultivational training to average families.”

Subtly, Xichen also adds, “We cannot condone personal attack for one’s parentage.”

The discussion continues without any further incidents and Lan Qiren does not speak again. After Xichen’s speech, he does spy Lan Sizhui passing a handkerchief to Wei Wuxian from the corner of his eye but Lan Qiren resolutely refuses to look at Wei Wuxian.

Once the day’s meeting comes to an end, Wei Wuxian jumps to his feet and bounds directly to Wangji. Outrageous, Lan Qiren thinks without any real heat.

Just as Lan Qiren rises to his own feet, Wei Wuxian bounces back to speak to him. Wangji follows closely behind, a pleased expression on his face. They come to a stop just before Lan Qiren and bow. After they rise, Lan Qiren notices Wangji’s hand resting tenderly, protectively, on Wei Wuxian’s waist.

“Old Man Lan, I didn’t know you cared!” Wei Wuxian chirps brightly. Instinctively, Lan Qiren can feel his blood pressure rising from such an informal address. But, he has long since realized that Wei Wuxian has mastered balancing on the line between propriety and impropriety to infuriate without causing genuine outrage.

“I do not.” Lan Qiren folds his arms in his sleeves, looking every bit the respectable Elder he is. “An insult to the Chief Cultivator’s spouse is an affront to Gusu Lan,” he repeats his words from earlier. “It is unacceptable.”

Wangji frowns. “Insults to Wei Ying are common.” Wangji looks content enough to have his husband back in his arms, but there is a dangerous glint in his eyes as though he is prepared to skewer every cultivator who looks at Wei Ying without the utmost respect with Bichen.

Glancing over at Wangji and Wei Wuxian, Lan Qiren thinks they are standing too close. It is improper to display such outward demonstrations of affection.

But Lan Qiren doesn’t say anything.

“I mean, it’s not entirely undeserved,” Wei Wuxian says softly to Wangji. Lan Qiren is almost disgusted by how much love they radiate simply by existing in the presence of the other.

Wangji’s frown deepens as his arm tightens around Wei Wuxian. He turns to look directly at Wei Wuxian’s face and Wei Wuxian looks up in return. Wei Wuxian’s hand comes to cover Wangji’s hand where it rests on his waist.

By the way Wei Wuxian and Wangji are wordlessly gazing at each other with minute changes in their expressions, Lan Qiren can tell they are having a completely separate conversation silently.

Lan Qiren clears his throat pointedly, reminding Wangji and Wei Wuxian of his presence. “Wei Ying has atoned,” Wangji says, verbalizing their conversation even though he is still looking at Wei Wuxian.

“It’s an occupational risk.” Wei Wuxian looks away from Wangji as his gaze drops. His smile is not sad, exactly, but it is very subdued and Lan Qiren realizes that he does not enjoy seeing such melancholy on Wei Wuxian’s face. (Only because that somber look is mirrored on Wangji’s face and Wei Wuxian’s sole purpose in Cloud Recesses to make Wangji happy. Definitely not because Lan Qiren cares about Wei Wuxian in any way, shape or form.)

Huffing impatiently, Lan Qiren waves a disapproving finger in Wei Wuxian’s face. “You are a member of Gusu Lan. Do not shame us by allowing your detractors to address you with such offense.”

“And you,” Lan Qiren continues, shifting his ire to Wangji, “do not leave your spouse to protect himself. I taught you myself that diplomacy requires the presentation of a united front.”

With one last unimpressed look at Wei Wuxian and Wangji, Lan Qiren swept his arms behind his back and strode out of the meeting hall.

As he walked away, Lan Qiren decided he was growing too soft in his old age.

He’d have to remedy that softness by assigning Lan Jingyi some lines to complete during his handstands.

~~~

Just so we are very clear, I do not condone Lan Qiren’s view that Wei Wuxian is /letting/ others walk all over him. But, I do think that is the most in character approach Lan Qiren would have towards encouraging Wei Wuxian given his affinity for the tough love approach.

[moonandstars]

Tainted Sorrow

Plot : You work in the mafia and Taeyong is the boss.You both suck at feelings.

words : 5.8k

warning : violence, mentions of death and blood, nothing graphic just mafia related stuff

details : inspired by Bungou Stray Dogs but this is stand alone and independent. knowing BSD is not required to read this.

A/N : just boss era Taeyong. Thats all.

I

"I swear boss, it wasn't me. I would never betray you." The man said lying on floor, covered and drowned in his own blood, bruises covering his face and his body barely able to move.

You watch as Taeyong leans down and lands a punch of the man's face, sending him flying few steps back. Taeyong looks invincible as he walks ahead and stops, there's a red light glowing around his form, a thin red border covering his whole body as he stares at the man on the ground.

 Taeyong leans down again and places his leg on the man's head.

"If you want an end to your misery, I suggest you speak while you still can." Taeyong spoke calmly.

"I am sorry boss-" You are not even startled by listening to the sounds that come, having witness it countless time. The red glow of Taeyong swallow the man and his body forced downwards towards the ground, almost buried inside. Taeyong takes out his gun and shoots him three time in the chest. The man lies lifeless on the floor and Taeyong is walking back towards you.

 There's no words exchanged as you both walk outside the building and get into the car while everyone bows . This is the life in the mafia and this is the life of the city, where a few powerful organisations with people with gifted ability runs the city. The people who are gifted with an ability are few, but still their existence is known. There's no telling who out there might posses what kind of ability. One of those organisation happened to be the Mafia, run and controlled by the Mafia Boss, Lee Taeyong, a manipulator of gravity; an ability that allows him to manipulate the gravity of him and his surrounding; one of the most powerful ability to exist.

 "These shitty pawns are nothing but headache when lured." Taeyong mutters. And it's all good. The traitor is gone and an example is set for the others and they had the enemy's information.

 "You should wait out your violence until I am able to choke out all the information from them, I thought we were clear on that." You said as the car started.

"And I did."

 "By a few seconds-"

"You can't seriously expect me to wait killing him after he betrayed me."

"You just use violence and your power every time-"

"And you are just too damn smart for your own good. I appreciate your intelligence but sometimes tearing apart their limbs is more important." Taeyong said with a tone that implied that end of conversation.

 "Sure, whatever the boss says after all." You said with a sneer. It was a very common banter between you both, too common. It has been like that since you fought each other as mere kids, kids who were not normal, kids who have had far more blood on their hands than they could give account for. Ever since the day you both met, it has been countless bickering, competitions and the hunt for more successful missions, for you both combined were the mafia's most powerful weapon after all. But beneath those countless fights, lies a trust that neither of you will admit ; a trust that you place in each other that even in the most gruesome of situations, even at the cost of your own lives, you will save each other. 

You harbored more feelings for him than just that. It took a long while to admit those to yourselves. After all what even could you call those? Love? Love is for kids who exchange shy notes between classes, for normal people who look for company, for the youth that walks under the cherry blossoms with a smile on their lips and glitter in their eyes not for monster like you or Taeyong. You were kids who learned to use a knife before learning to write; who don't look for company but for blood; mafia leaders that have sin on their lips and death in their eyes.

  II

It was around midnight when you were done making a few important calls for the next mission. You were waiting for Taeyong in his office, which was just adjacent to yours on the highest floor of the mafia's long glass building that stood in the center of the city; also the tallest building in the city. Midnight was when the mafia works, everyone in the city was aware that the nights were run by the mafia and even the government could not interfere.There was a limited truce.

 You sighed and looked at glass window which covered the entire floor, the moon was bright and big, staring strongly back at you; asking you; pitying you. You were not strong enough to stare back so you looked at your reflection in the glass; a black jeans with black boots hugging your legs, a white shirt with a black bolo tie, sleeves rolled to your elbow, a black belt choker sitting on your neck; a gift from Taeyong; "It looks so beautiful on your neck." He had whispered in the night, words that only bloom under the moon, forgotten and left in the morning while both walk forward.

  Love is not for sinners.

A series of strong footsteps draws your attention towards the big wooden doors, behind those Taeyong appears, walking powerfully as he always does. He can fly as high as he can, defying the very nature of physics but when he walks; he makes his presence as loud as he can; strong.

  "It's so the world knows my existence, my power; so that I know I exist."

The black tiles crumble beneath him as he gracefully walks towards his grand table. His usual black attire, black pants and white shirt; a black blazer with a long black overcoat hanging on his shoulders, flowing behind him. His hands in black gloves. A black onyx bolo tie sitting proudly underneath his collar; a gift from you. "This compliments your aura."  His hair bright crimson, matching the blood on his face, that's definitely not his.

 "Admiring the beautiful moon tonight,__?" Taeyong spoke wiping the blood off his face.

"At least there's something worth admiring here." Taunts flowing from you like a second nature, something that only Taeyong brings out.

 "Admire away then, amusing to see your laziness doesn't stops you from that." 

You smile, hidden from him, what actually amusing is how riled Taeyong gets from small taunts, all the more reason to annoy him.

"Well shitty Boss, my lazy strategy plans saves your ass multiple times."

"Well fucker my ass can be saved just fine without your shitty plans." It's a lie, he knows it but nobody points it out. 

There's a knock at the door before before you can say something. Taeyong presses a button and the door opens, giving a sight of Yuta. He bows and makes his way inside, standing in front of Taeyong's desk. He gives a small bow again and looks up. He looks up ragged up, as if just came here from a fight, which he probably did. But still no signs of any injury, his purple hair a little disheveled but his black jeans and shirt still in place.

"Thirty six total deaths. Five of our own."  Yuta says and Taeyong lets out a soft sigh and a pained expression crosses his eyes, gone as soon as it came, at the mention of the death of our own. Deaths of mafia's men has always pained Taeyong more than he shows, as if even after sacrificing his humanity he is still the most human inside. 

"What is the result of their lives, Yuta san?" Taeyong asked.

"__'s predictions were right. The special ops department are planning to disrupt the deal tomorrow and most possibly launch an attack. The lead you told me to follow lead into their group today, they also have few gifted ones with them. They possibly have few spies in the company that's arriving tomorrow for the deal." Yuta  breathed. 

"Then the answer is clear. If they dare to interfere, the mafia will retaliate." Taeyong said lazily, but his eyes spoke sheer danger and revenge.

"The Black Lizard won't let you down." Yuta said, voice dancing with excitement, as if he wanted someone to dare just so he could get the chance to kill. Nakamoto Yuta, the commander of Black Lizard, a special unit under the Mafia which exist only for one reason, to annihilate the enemy. His gifted ability was what made his ways of killing even special, an ability to create illusions on his target, playing with their minds, allowing himself to dissociate them from their reality and kill them within their madness. For such a skilled assassin Yuta is, he can do the job just fine even without using his ability, but you wonder that he just likes to see his victim in pain and confusion while he toys with them.

 "I won't expect anything less." Taeyong spoke with a dismissive tone.

 Yuta sighed and looked up you and then at Taeyong. "Boss I am deeply sorry for the lives of our subordinates that were lost under my command." Yuta spoke, his eyes deep in grieve. 

A small smile ghosted over Taeyong lips as if he was expecting, waiting for Yuta's apology.

 "Yuta san, as long their deaths gives us a meaning, all is forgiven." 

 Yuta nodded and turned around walking towards the door from where he came, his shoulders a little less tense than they were before.

 "Yuta san." You voiced out. "Patch yourself up before the fight. It will be more uglier then." 

"I wish I could but my boss is very ruthless and demanding employee." Yuta said amusingly.

 "That I cannot deny." You spoke looking over to Taeyong, a small smile in your eyes.

"Give yourself a rest after the black caskets are out. We need all the power for tomorrow." Taeyong said annoyingly with affection. 

"Sometimes I forget you're such a nice person Taeyong!!" Yuta said teasingly and walked out.

 It is all good because it is Yuta, a member of mafia, a men of your own, a friend from the forgotten but longing years of childhood, a small kid who bumped into you and Taeyong and has always been here since then. If it was anyone else, any other mafia member, they would have knelt in front of Taeyong before even daring to look up; If it was anyone else, they would have shaken with fear, kept their eyes down; If it was not Yuta, even an informal breath would have resulted in something cruel and tragic.

III

You were still standing there, admiring the moon. Taeyong standing besides you, his presence bringing a familiar warmth towards you. An intimate silence broken by Taeyong.

 "The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" He breathed, looking at you. An honest expression, at least as honest as he could muster, spread over his face. You smiled, treasuring this moment with all your heart.

 Moments like this which only existed in the darkness, in the quiet of night where the moonlight gave your vulnerable being a protection, a  shelter which covered your soul and made it more honest. A few more moments passed like this until you spoke again. 

"Do you wanna hear a plan?" 

"I was waiting for that." He smiled.

 "All the reports that you showed me, I am definite there will be a full attack on us." You started. " And they will bring out the ability users, although I am quite doubtful there will be more than two. The best moment of attack for them would be-"

 "In the middle of the deal." He completed. 

"They have the intel that the mafia boss would be there, probably from the traitor you killed before."

 "They are still no match for the mafia. We will proceed according your the plan." He said and sat on the table looking over the city while stood to his right, like always. 

You observed his face, eyes shimmering from the reflection, lashes casting a shadow on his cheeks; the moonlight shining on his face. You were busy in staring, forgetting he was looking back.

 "Now who's worth admiring?" He asked.

 "Well still not you fucker." A weak jab.

"Stop thinking about tomorrow." He said, rubbing a thumb over your forehead.

 "Can't help it."

"None of their armed men compares to ours and as far as the ability users are concerned, we have you." He spoke.

 He was right. Ability users had no effect on you due to your own ability. Your gift was a disabling ability, an ability that allows you to nullify any other ability with just a simple touch on their skin. Some say it's a useless ability, Taeyong says it's the mafia's ace. You already knew who to believe.

 "You're an ability user too. I could disable your power and get rid of you too."

 "You could and you should. But you won't." Taeyong mused.

 Your ability takes away the ability of others, makes them vulnerable, takes away a part of themselves that makes them special. It's easy to defeat them because they are so dependent on their abilities, they don't know what else to do. Taeyong is not a slave to his ability. His ability does not define him. Even if it is taken away from him, he's still Lee Taeyong. The man who rules the mafia, the man who kills his enemies mercilessly; the man who makes you feel human in the most inhuman ways. 

As you watch him leaning against your shoulder, you can't help but think about what is he to you. You don't often, because it is so tiring to think about the same thing again and again and yet not being able to reach a conclusion. A friend, you both have never used that word, too busy bickering and silly fighting with each other to use the word friends. A lover, that word always stung too deep within you. A word too pure, too beautiful, too normal for someone like you. Lovers cannot define the complex relationship you had with Taeyong. Countless nights of sex, tangled with each other, whispering softly all the things in the night that vanish in the daylight, small gifts hidden somewhere, birthdays celebrated in the company of each other, a silent respect, a strong trust and a hard and sharp instinct of protecting each other at any cost. It was clear that you both were exclusive to each other but nobody ever said that it was a relationship. And love was never on either of yours tongue ever.

  Love is for humans. What are you?

You discarded the idea of love a long time ago. You don't know when you fell in love with Taeyong, at fifteen perhaps when you both met or at sixteen when you both became mafia's strongest weapon or maybe at seventeen when you both secretly bought a safe house together, or might be at eighteen when you both were mafia's youngest executives. You don't know. You didn't need to know. A partner, that has always been more intimate to you than anything else. You both were partners as soon as you joined the mafia, a string of successful missions beside your names. You could jump in front of bullets knowing Taeyong would stop them. Maybe a partner was the best word to describe what he was to you.

"You know it's like I can still hear his voices in this office." Taeyong whispered. You tensed, you knew exactly who he meant. A ghost of the past that still haunts you.

"It's like he's angry that I am in his office, in his place." Taeyong continues.

 "Taeyong." You tried.

"He just looks at me like he always did with those fucked up eyes and his ugly smile-"

"Taeyong, there's no one here."

"And he keeps asking why I stabbed him that night but he knows, right, he knows why."

"Taeyong" You said lifting his head. "He's not here. He's dead. You're the boss now." 

"He keeps whispering in my ear that how am I monster, like he told me-"

"Taeyong! You're not a monster. The old boss is dead, for good. He's gone forever." You said sternly, holding his face.

 No matter how many people Taeyong has killed, the only soul that has bothered him was of the mafia's previous boss. A crafty man of great power, who brought you all into the mafia world, who taught you how to perfectly slit a throat, how to manipulate someone to the core; he taught, made you into a perfect weapon, a tool. The hatred for that man runs deep in your skin, even deeper for Taeyong since he was always the target of boss's puzzles. This will make you even more stronger, He used to say, while watching you get tortured by enemies in return for obtaining information. Until one day he went too far, that day he died by the hands of Taeyong, while you stood and watched serving as a witness as his position for the next mafia boss. 

"He told me he saw himself in me. What does that says about me? "

"Taeyong. We are not going to believe his words." You spoke taking his hand. "You want to go home?"

"Always."

A place to live for you both was the pent house in the mafia's building, just a floor below the office, provided with every luxury that a man could imagine. Home was an apartment in the city, a place that used to serve a secret safe house for you both, but now it's where the peace resided and where the words come out and bloom and where you feel a little human with Taeyong.

  IV

You stepped out of the car with Taeyong at the extraction point, a few steps far away from where the dealing was supposed to take place at a warehouse. You were waiting for the latest information before proceeding any further. You watched as Taeyong in his usual mafia attire, dragged a puff from his cigarette looking up the sky, a cloudy night with no moon or stars in sight. He throws the half smoked cigarette down and crushes it, turning towards you.

 "The moon looks beautiful tonight."

"It's a foggy night Taeyong, we can't even see the moon."

"I can."

 "Taeyong-"

"BOSS!" Yuta comes walking from the shadows of trees, looking around quickly and bowing to Taeyong.

 "What's the news?" Taeyong spoke calmly. 

"They will launch an attack. It's given." Taeyong looked at you while he listened to Yuta. "They have men around the warehouse at a distance. Of course, our men have them covered. There are two gifted, we have eyes on one, his ability is related to controlling the wind around him. I will be able to take him down."

"And the other?" You asked, looking at Yuta's expression darkened. 

"We don't know. He controls his size. That's all I could gather. How much threat he holds is still questionable." 

"He must be an ace considering how secretly his power has been kept." You thought.

 "For the special ops to be so brave with launching an open attack like this on us. I just pity for their lives." Taeyong said.

 "Boss I don't think we should underestimate them." 

"Are you doubting your skills Yuta san?" Taeyong said darkly.

"You know that's not what I meant Taeyong." Yuta spoke quietly. The driver of the car looked at Yuta in horror, wondering how the death will come to Yuta. It was probably his first time watching someone talk to Taeyong like that besides you. 

"This is why you were told to patch yourself up. Don't let these morons get to you. This is nothing for the mafia." Taeyong spoke with a commanding voice, but you could hear the underlying softness, a little consolation, a little advise.

Yuta nodded and gave out the position details before disappearing  in the shadows again. 

"He was not wrong. It's never safe to walk into an unknown enemy, an ability user for that." You spoke as you and Taeyong walked towards the warehouse.

"I know." Taeyong said simply.

 It was in the middle of deal, just after exchanging the goods, you heard a loud noise outside. Just as you expected. A message from yuta ten minutes said that he had the first gifted under his control and the second one was heading your way.

 "What was that?" The other businessman said.

 "Absolutely nothing of your concern. Our deal has been done and the official papers will be send to you." Taeyong said getting up.

 "But what-"

"Also If I were you, I would pay more attention to what my subordinates are up to." Taeyong spoke with a glint in his eyes, a warm and powerful desire, an excitement of some action awaiting him. 

Outside you saw at least fifty men, all of them armed, in front of the warehouse. A tall man stood in the middle leading the rest. It was just you and Taeyong against them. 

"Well partner, let's just get on with it." Taeyong said, activating his ability, a bright red hue glowing around him. You take out your gun. Even though your ability was not an attack one, you were the best fighter in the mafia. It was lasted probably twenty minutes when all of them were in the ground. A few grunts were heard from the ground, a few ones who were just minutes away from their dead. You thought about shooting them again, and again until you could end their painful suffering soon and for once. It would be better to just accept death rather than lying in the cold mud, drowning in their blood. You were about to about pick up your gun again when you saw an unusual movement from the middle of the ground.

"Taeyong!" You shouted, while pointing the gun and shooting at the person of movement but it was useless. The movement continued and as you squinted, you saw the form getting bigger and bigger, like a giant. 

"__, what the hell is that?" Taeyong said beside you.

 "The ability user." You spoke as you saw the enemy grow as tall as trees surrounding you, various roots covering him, as if he was using them to grow his form. You had to get close to him and touch him, to nullify his ability and return to his normal form, otherwise he could keep causing destruction for you. 

"Step back,__." 

"Huh, Taeyong?" 

"It's not safe to go close." He said looking at the enemy, fist clenched

."We have to try it." You said going towards the growing structure, but every time you got too close he could try to kick or stomp really hard, and that flow would throw you backwards with a force. His defense was not allowing you to go close to him, let alone touch him. You tried one more time and this time too, you were thrown back.

"__." Taeyong called running towards you. "You okay?"

 "He knows our abilities." You said standing up again. "That's why he laid back when you were attacking, that's why he won't let me come close." 

"That traitor snitched everything, but we have to stop him anyhow." 

"There's only one way left, but it's your choice Taeyong." You sighed.

"Every time you say that, it's not like I have a choice anyways." Taeyong said, walking ahead a little, and started pulling his gloves out; a finger at a time until both the gloves were thrown aside.

 "If I am late to touch you, you know what will happen right?"

 "But you won't be." He said, looking back at you, eyes intense. "Or I'll kick your ass."

 Taeyong walked ahead towards the enemy, a red glow, brighter than ever before started surrounding him. Red marks started decorating his skin, his hands, his face; his coat flew aside. You could feel the gravity shifting around the whole area, the center being Taeyong. He was activating his corruption. Simply controlling objects through their gravity was only the front of Taeyong's ability, that he could use in his full control. Corruption was something else though, something more uncontrollable and devastating to the city, to Taeyong himself. Activating corruption allowed Taeyong to control gravity of a larger area and create black holes with his power that swallows everything that comes it's way and destroys it. He could control gravity to a particle level. After all, he is called the manipulator of gravity. This part of his abilitywas only known to a handful of mafia members and you're the only one who has ever witnessed it. The downside of it was that, Taeyong could activate his corruption at his own will but once it was activated, his mind goes blank and he is not in control anymore. He becomes a destructing machine and keeps destroying every thing that comes his way, until he runs out of his energy and dies.

 The only was to stop this was your ability, to touch Taeyong and nullify corruption as soon as he defeats the enemy. You watched as corruption took over Taeyong and he annihilated the the giant enemy in the span of few minutes. You ran over to him before he could any more damage to the surrounding, to himself. You grabbed his hand and watched as his ability became null, the red glow leaving his posture, the red marks disappearing from his skin, as if they never existed in the first place. He fell down on his knees and coughed blood, a normal occurrence after using corruption. You held him. A wave of relief passes over you seeing that Taeyong is safe. It has always been your fear, that you'll be late, that you will break the trust; that you will lose Taeyong.

 "Take rest Taeyong, the enemy is defeated." 

"You stopped me right after?" He asked, coughing.

"I was about to, but you looked such a red dork like that."

 "Fuck, you better take me home right--" He said while coughing and falling onto you. 

Thankfully grabbed him at the right time."Rest now."

 "__."

"Taeyong-"

"__, the moon--"

 "I know. I know. The moons looks beautiful tonight right?" You spoke as you looked up to the sky, the clouds were cleared away; countless stars scattered, dancing across the black canvas but the moon still was shying away somewhere. You could never understood what Taeyong talked about sometimes, you did not needed to anyways.

  VI

You lay on the bed next to Taeyong, bodies tired from the fight before. All the fresh wounds covered in bandages. You were a little better than Taeyong, using corruption leaves him tired for a lot of hours. But a fight was won and the boss could use a little rest. You heard some noise as you watched Taeyong turn around in the sheets and settled on his back. 

"You should rest properly shitty boss." You spoke.

"Aww is that concern __?" 

"No that's a headache because I am the one that has to take your tantrums." 

"Well that's--" Taeyong hissed clutching his side. You rose up quickly and helped him sit. 

"See, that's why I told you to rest. How's the pain?" You asked, checking the ribs.

"Nothing much. It's the usual one."

 "Are you lying to me?"

 "Come on partner, don't you trust me?" He asked, a smirk plastered over his face. You just huff and sit beside him on the bed, in front of the large window that looks over the sky and  city underneath it. A calm and comfortable silence follows over both of you. You look over at Taeyong. He looks pretty healthy, apart from corruption side effects, there's not any major physical injury. Even the violence in your life has become a second nature, it still does not sit well with you that every fight you go into, could potentially be yours or Taeyong's last fight. You hoped it was yours because you did not knew what to do without the man next you. It  could be your years long partnership that makes you so co dependent, nothing else and not certainly love. Love is for people with a heart, not for you who just killed hundreds of men without blinking not just few hours ago.

 "What thoughts are interesting enough to keep you invested?" Taeyong asked, still looking ahead.

 "I just forgot how beautiful and calm the moonlight feels." You whispered.

"I think we spend too much time looking at the darkness instead."

"We are the mafia Taeyong, even the blood is black. Darkness is where the mafia exist." You spoke looking at your hands, little cuts and scraps littered across.

 "No."

"You don't agree?"

"More like, we exist in the stars, in the air, among the wind, under the moonlight. I believe that's where you and I exist together." 

"Since when did you started thinking like that? But I understand, you always had more human thoughts than me. "

 "I don't know. It just swiped by, I- don't mind, corruption really tires me a lot." He spoke smiling softly. 

"Come on now, you never talk to me about this."

"It's not like I need to speak for you to understand." And it's true. He does not need to tell you about his fears. But still when it came to corruption, you had your own fears; or just single fear, that is losing Taeyong. You bear the burden of saving him and not being able to do so, was the single most terrifying thing for you. You always wondered how Taeyong felt during that time. But he refused to talk about all of this, specially since he killed the boss. Its ironic, before the death of boss you were the one who was closed off and reserved but now that you want to get close, it's Taeyong who seems lost. It's like the burden is too much, even for someone as invisible as me.

  "Easy there, might sound like we actually like each other." You tried to joke around, tried to change the heaviness in the only way you knew but it did not had any affect on Taeyong. He was still looking at you with a soft smile; a smile that made you believe in your humanity, a smile that made you dead heart shake, a smile that made you fall in love.

"I think you do, otherwise you won't run to save me every time."

 "I don't want to burden myself with being a boss, that's why."

"You would be a better option than me." Taeyong spoke, so many  emotions swinging in his eyes. You could pick each and every one of them apart, but then again, that's what you always did. Sometimes you wished Taeyong would tell you, explain to you rather than just leaving you with these unspoken feelings.

"I-it's- I would not be. You know that. Besides that's not the point."

 "Then what is the point?"

 "It's just that you don't have to be so closed off you know. We're partners after all." You said, still trying to maintain the conversation because this is your safe space, a place you and Taeyong call home, if there's any solace in existence, it's right here at this very place.

"I just said you will make a better boss. Someone who can lead an organisation."

 "I am not someone who can sacrifice myself for the mafia like you. I don't need an end like that."

"It's not sacrificing myself if I know you will save me in time. I know I am not going to die."

 "You can't be sure of that." You said letting the words hang in the air between you two. 

"Is that your fear?" Taeyong spoke after a while, voice little shaky. Not used to honest conversations. 

"I-Taeyong it's pointless to fear death in the mafia. Either yours or mine. I came to peace with that a long time ago. I believe that death is not opposite of living, it's merely a component in our process of lives."

"Then?"

 "If you die some other way, there's always an explanation for that. But if you die using corruption, it's me, that I was too late. I will be the one with your blood on my hands. Your death will be my fault, it'll be on my conscience. I know I won't be able to live with that, I can't survive knowing that I was the reason for you death, that I-" You took a deep breath "that I broke our trust."

 "Even if that happens, I am sure there will a reason for you being unable to save me."

 "Is it not your fear? You're the one who'll be dying."

"Like you said, a mafia blood should not fear death. Besides I don't think there's any such time when one should chicken out, specially a boss." Taeyong said in a low tone, he was looking ahead in the sky but his eyes seems so blurry and lost. You sighed, the conversation looked like it was over, until Taeyong spoke again.

"The fear, if that word can dare to come close to what I feel, is not simply dying. It's a possibility that every time I use corruption, it might be the last time I see you. Even when I have lost control, mind black and body in red, I know in my heart that you will come. But if something happens to you while I am out, I won't be able to do anything." Taeyong smiled, a sorrowful one, the same smile that laced his face when he came back after killing the boss. But the mourning was not for the one who died. "That is my fear."

The fear of losing you, the fear of not protecting you.

You knew he has always been protective of you, an instinct that came as soon as you met. Something blossomed inside your heart, like a flower that was showing it's petals, so soft and sweet. The fear that was unspoken till now, was something you both shared. The fear of losing each other, the fear of not being able to protect each other; a feeling of not being able to survive without each other. Maybe you both were not human, and maybe love was not for you but that is not what you needed anymore. Love was not beautiful enough to define what you both felt for each other, and there was no need to define those unspoken feelings. As long as I have you here, right with me, I could survive anything. He was not your lover, but he was your partner. Love was not for you, but Taeyong was.  And somehow, that was enough.

He turned his eyes away from window and looked at you. Sorrowfulness replaced with softness, Eyes crinkled and small smile dancing on his face, red hair falling unevenly, the stars in the sky, the smell of rain, the sound of his breath when he spoke.

"The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" 

----

The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t is? = I love you. By Natsume Soeseki

At the time, Japanese people were more reserved than they are at present day. They hesitated to express feelings of love directly. I, for one, like this expression 月が綺麗ですね | tsuki ga kirei desune (the moon is beautiful, isn’t is?) -- it sounds literary and intelligent.

This phrase was used by Natsume Soseki as a form of saying “I love you”. For the writer, two people with deep feelings for each other do not need to use those three words to effectively convey their feelings. Sometimes, even the simplest phrases contain more emotion than direct ones.

----

if  you guys don’t know about bungou stray dogs idk what is up with you. it’s one of best anime’s out there, like i still don’t have feels for anything else like i did for this. Please watch it & you’ll love it even more if you like literature because every character is based on real life author. Just watch it pls :))

anyways y’all if you watched/read Bungou stray dogs you probably realized that taeyong= chuuya & you = dazai ( bc daichuu <3). 

ALSO PLS SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS IF U HATE IT, DISLIKE IT, LIKE IT, LOVE IT, JUST PLS SEND IN ASK OR TEXTS OR COMMENTS. IT’S A SIDE BLOG SO I CAN;T REPLY PERSONALLY BUT PLS GIVE ME FEEDBACK.

EDIT : ALSO WHAT DO YOU GUYS SAY ABOUT A PREQUEL WHERE I TELL YOU HOW THEY MEET AND THE BOSS’S DEATH AND TY BECOMES THE BOSS?

[averyscarlet-blog]

Project Clypse

Hello there stranger! If you don’t know who I am, or you’re too lazy to read my name, I’m AveryScarlet! You can simply call me Avery or Av. And if you know me on fanfiction.net, mostly through my works Mercury Alchemist or Final Fantasy Versus XV, welcome! Now, for a while now, I’ve been wanting to write up my own original story. Issue with me, thanks to college in the past, I haven’t properly developed the mindset to write a full-blown novel. I’ve gotten so used to typing up a chapter or two in a month before publishing them that I can’t properly focus as an actual writer should.

As much as I want to focus on writing some of my fanfiction, I can’t because I’m focusing on studying for NCLEX. So if you’re waiting for the next chapter for FF Versus XV... It’s almost done! It’s just gonna take a while. But as you can see below, I’ve been working on something else. I’m sure you’re confused as to who these characters are in the chat and why I’m pushing so many out. Well. I’ll tell you. This is my way of practicing for a story I’ve been... REALLY wanting to write for a long time. It doesn’t have a definite name, so I’m calling it Project Clypse. Which partially comes from the group my main characters are in. 

Now, I thought of writing up their character bio’s but..... I’m not really that good at it as I used to be. I used to for when I was active in RP’s but I’m so rusty that I doubt I can keep up with whomever I’m chatting with. So, I’m just summarizing certain details you need to know about them! Not all of it because that'd be spoiling the story of every character. Now, with all that’s said and done, let me start explaining key points of Project Clypse.

Premise/Background

The story is centered on a world called Avarus, which you can say is sort of like Earth, except it was made with someone else's version of life. Or, it used to be. Avarus is one of the few remaining worlds that has an active patron God, who has chosen to go under the alias Belial. The world was originally created and governed by another, Belial’s younger sister, Soleil. After Avarus’ creation, and the birth of man, she was killed by an unknown assailant. But before she died, she was cursed to experience an endless cycle of death and rebirth into various random worlds. She will live a short mortal life, then die from either natural or unnatural causes.

According to Belial, this curse is bestowed only to Celetials who have performed a dire sin. While there is no definite way to lift the curse, Belial hopes that by locating and retrieving her while she's still alive, or at the very least obtain her soul, then he could find the proper means to spare his sister of her cursed fate and return Avarus's true patron Goddess. Because of her demise, life on the planet started to decay. To prevent its destruction, Belial forced the planet to stop rotating, hoping to delay it long enough for him to find Soleil.

However, there were dire consequences to this act. His actions indirectly causing the world to cease rotating; time became non-existent as a result. This, inevitably, killed off most of the remaining life in the world due to the imbalance of the ecosystem as one half of the planet became stuck in perpetual darkness, and the other being dried up caused prolonged exposure to the sun's light.

The only life that Belial was able to salvage was her sisters creation; humanity. Those that survived after the planet ceased its rotation found themselves unable to age. They can still die, but their bodies will no longer decay. During the first Century since Soleil’s death, the God went through various countermeasures to keep the world and the life still inhabits it safe until he can find his sister.

However, a strange plague began to manifest. Soon, it began to devour most of the remaining populace, creating a dark entity in the process; the Astrals (will explain in a different section). 

While Belial was successful in wiping out the infected, the God realized that he cannot keep the last remnants of humanity safe. Not while there are still Astrals lurking about. So he put them to sleep, sealed them in a place that only he knows. However, because of the sudden absence of time and life, the world began to deconstruct itself each time he departed in search for her in other worlds. Realizing he cannot manage Avarus and search for his sister at the same time, he found an alternative. Since his conception, he had noticed a peculiar type of living being popping up now and then in a variety of sentient species. So he sought them out. 

Eventually, gathered enough to temporarily replace humanity and trick the world itself into thinking life still exists. At first, he gathered adults since he knew nothing can grow in Avarus once they’ve lived in the world for a certain period of time, but because of their attachments to the worlds they originated from, it was difficult to convince them to remain. Then he thought up of another solution, one which he knew his sister would frown upon. Children. With their young minds, they’ll easily forget their place of origin and can be easily trained in the necessary skill in traversing through different worlds. And, after learning that the Astrals have branched out to those said worlds, learn how to handle their sudden enemy. 

Their goal is simple; to locate and, if possible, retrieve Soleil and eradicate the Astrals.

Main Characters

Note: Just in case you did not know... I. Cannot. Draw. As much as it pains me to do this, but I need you guys to have some sort of idea on how they look like. I cannot find the original artists of the artworks; mostly because google imaging is shit and Pinterest tends to... Send you elsewhere. So of you know the artist, please PM me so I can give them credit. If you know they don't want their works republished, I'll remove it and try to figure something out. I take no credit whatsoever on the art! I merely scoured the internet for any references I could use. If you're wondering why I'm not.using actual people... You know how awkward that is?

Anyway, much of these are concepts so expect changes in the future. I tried to discuss as little as possible about each character. And let me tell ya.... That was a lot I had to cut off, so if the explanation is a bit messy, that was from me trying to select what to remove to avoid revealing too much.

. . .

Sound

‘I have to be better. I have to be a better leader. I have to be a better lover. I have to be a better sibling. If I don’t... then I’ll lose everything again. If I must, I’ll sacrifice my identity for a third time if it means protecting them.’

Credits to: T0Q00(?) - Okay, on Pinterest it has the person’s name AND link to their twitter account. The thing is... it’s empty. Their entire page is empty. At least I found the artist’s name?

Also known as the Glutton King, Sound is one of the leaders of his faction, Tunera Clypse and a member of Mythral. He is a first generation Nors. While not as lazy as Noise, he’s not really a fan of getting involved in fights with people. When it comes to killing Astrals; that’s an entirely different story.  

Outwardly, he displays laid back, playful, and very concerning outlandish behavior. And by outlandish, I mean his... eating habits. Sound likes to experiment with his stomach. He’ll do absolutely ANYTHING to eat whatever he deems as edible. He also - absolutely - lacks any sense of shame (ex. walking out of the shower and to his room without a towel, slapping Noise’s butt). Although limited to communicate via writing, he makes sure that every single thing he writes is worth reading. Many are even surprised at just how fast he writes his messages. Then again, after years of practice, it’s expected he’d adapt.

Sound is self-aware of the fact that he’s a fictional character and will randomly break the fourth wall, causing much confusion to his friends several times. While not as dark as his previous self, Fell, he maintains some of his views towards life and tends to be as vocal - via writing - of his previous self's beliefs.

As a Cursed Blood, his curse forces him to conceal his face behind a customized Fox Mask. Depending on the amount of facial skin that was exposed, a person can live up to several minutes to several hours before inflicted with sudden death. If a person were to see the entirety of his face, they will die on the spot from unknown causes. He has a Physical Curse as well, which causes him to inflict a certain degree bad-luck to whoever hears his voice. While it’s rarely anything life-threatening, Sound is forced to become selectively mute. Although he tries his best to remain silent, he tends to accidentally let it a few words or sounds slip. Which usually occurs when he sneezes, and when he does, it is immediately advised by his friends to duck and cover.

After undergoing the Ascension Ceremony, he joined the faction Tunera Clypse and then gave up his original name, becoming the next Sound. Unbeknownst to him, his actions later in life has caused him to unknowingly become the Vessel of Gluttony. It is unknown if his eating habits is the reason he became the vessel or it’s the other way around. Either way, he has shown to be fully capable of controlling the abilities that comes with being a Vessel. Sound merely chooses not to use them.

. . .

Ayane Koronashi

“If my brother had left the orphanage that day without me, I would simply smile. If Ulric presented me his latest girlfriend, I’d smile. Smiling is all I can ever do without being a nuisance. I could never show them my pain. I want to cry but my curse renders me incapable of doing so. But now it’s better. I’m better.”

Also known as the Black Fox. Ayane is the younger twin sister of Sound. Like her twin, she is also a member of Tunera Clypse and Mythral; as well as a first generation Nors. Despite being an active member, unless accompanied by her brother, Ayane is rarely allowed to participate in any scouting or combat-related missions. The main reason for this is her curse. While also a Cursed Blood like her brother and some of their friends, the unnatural causes that led to sudden conversion to a cursed blood caused her condition to be unstable. At the beginning, she was unable to retain her original form and would take the shape of a fox.

After some time and practice, she has learned to maintain most of her former human appearance, leaving only a pair of fox ears to replace her human ears and a tail (not by choice) as an extra ligament. Not only that, some of her internal organs remain similar to that of a fox. Because of this, she is unable to eat certain foods that are potentially poisonous to her (or generally unhealthy). She was told that eventually, if nothing is done, she will permanently take the complete form of a fox. She cannot surgically remove the fox parts as they will simply grow back.

Side-note: No, they did not try or plan to remove her fox ears. The curse replaced her human ears so they cannot remove them without indirectly making her deaf.

Her personality is the somewhat similar to Sound’s, but is far more excitable and outgoing than her brother. Just like a fox, she is clever and witty, which she demonstrates many times during combat. She has a tendencyto steal things without her knowledge. While this isn’t necessarily kleptomania, as objects appear in her hands at random, she still tries get over her childhood habit. She does have a tendency to be reckless, though this is stems from her need to be useful as her curse leaves her unable to perform all of the necessary abilities that is required of a Nors.

Another thing to know is her intense hatred towards cats. Which will be explored at a later time.

As a Cursed Blood, she can take the form of a fox. While the size varies, depending on her emotional state, she is commonly seen to change into the size similar to an elephant. If she performs multiple transformations, she will regress to a regular sized fox and sleep for an extensive period of time. She has been recommended to avoid constantly rely on her full fox form as it will hasten the progression of her curse.

After undergoing the Ascension Ceremony, she followed her brother and joined the same faction as him, but unlike him, did not join as a core member so she did not have to give up her original name. Because of the current state of her body caused by her Cursed Blood, her emotions has unknowingly lead her to become thenext Vessel of Envy.

. . .

Reihana Toelle Ur Kamaria

“Why was I born like this... what did I deserve to be cursed like this!? All I want is to hold someone without fearing I’ll crush them. I can’t be the receiver forever!”

Or Rei for short. Is a member of Mythral and is a second generation Nors. As a floater, Rei rotates between the three factions, but she usually works with Tunera Clypse. Known for her terrifying brute strength, Rei is feared by many and is challenged on a near daily basis. Because of her strength and seemingly indestructible nature, she is (much to her annoyance) sometimes used as a human shield. While she is able to take on an army by herself, Rei tries not to go all out in fear of accidentally killing her allies in the crossfire. In terms of mental maturity, aside from Xavier, she is slightly more competent and is level-headed enough to not participate in childish activities. Most of the time.

Rei prefers to ‘punch first, talk later’ when confronted, though the talking never happens as her opponents is either obliterated or immediately knocked out after one hit. While she can be aggressive at times, she merely acts out on this person's due to the rumors that were spread when word of her curse began to circulate. Those closest to her have witnessed her carefree and adventurous nature. She is also cautious and careful of her surroundings, becoming more thoughtful in the usage of her strength as a result.

As much as she loves the thrill and adrenaline that comes from combat, she prefers not to fight too often. Mostly because it usually leads to unnecessary mass destruction. She craves for proper physical contact, but due to her curse, she forces herself to avoid it as much as possible.

Being the physically oldest, next to Percy, she tends to act like the big sister of the group, which Rei has admitted she finds embarrassing. Still, she works hard in trying to act as moral support for her friends. That doesn’t stop her from losing her temper when a certain line is crossed.

As a Cursed Blood, she is cursed with immeasurable strength. Her strength doubles based on who or whatever is the strongest in a world that she sets foot in. That, of course, excludes Celestial’s as the strength of the divinity is almost non-existent. By default, back in Avarus, her usual strength is enough to crumble an entire building. In other worlds, it depends. To help control and regulate her strength during combat, she uses a large amount of Astral Dust to create form-fitting gauntlets around her lower arm. She was meant to become the Vessel of Wrath but was instead changed to be the candidate for the Vessel of Pride.

. . .

Perseus Vlahos

"I used to believe that being a hero will allow you to cement your place in history. But over time, I learned that the farther in time your name is shared in time, you become nothing more than a mere legend. Or worse, a myth. Stories can be altered, changed. If that’s the case, I’d rather not be remembered at all. I didn’t work this hard just to be written off as a bedtime story.” 

Christened under the name ‘Percy the Naive’ by his best friend, later life-long rival, Wilhelm, he is the current wielder of the legendary sword; Excalibur, and member of Infernum Poncitator. Grandson of Rayner, Percy is one of the few third generation Nors in Avarus. He is a kind young man and is respected amongst his peers (well, most of them) and superiors, so much so that he has been offered the position of leader of the faction. Percy refuses as not only deems himself unworthy, but out of respect for those that have lived in Avarus longer.

He displays many the ideal traits of a knight, eventually becoming viewed as an ideal knight by others. However, deep down, Percy perceives himself as the opposite. He feels he is a dishonorable fraud and is not proud of his status as Excalibur's chosen wielder. If he was given a chance to do it over again, Percy would immediately abandon his decision never search and locate the sword.

After joining Avarus, in a short span of time, Percy was able to easily establish himself as a sort of leader figure within his faction. While serious most of the time, especially during missions, due to his time with other Nors, has displayed a degree of patience and tolerance towards whoever he is assigned. Still, he never forgets their main objective and takes charge if he deems the assigned leader incompetent. Which happens more times than he refuses to count. He tries to maintain a cool head, but will severely reprimand others if the situation calls for it.

Proficient in the ways of the sword, he garnered the attention of (the then Mongrel) Mitchell. He was very reluctant in taking in a squire. But eventually, Percy relented after the younger boy attempted to fight against an Astral and nearly lost his life. He plans to one day pass down Excalibur to Mitchell once he gains the strength to surpass Percy.

At the moment, Percy is the current Vessel of Wrath.

. . .

Noise (***** Rallus)

“I tried all of my life to give my dad a reason why he shouldn't be treating his body the way he did. I tried all of my life to keep my friend in line so I'd never have to be the one to discipline him. And yet... If only I didn't try so hard, they'd still be alive.”

Author’s Note: Yeah I... legit do not know who this belongs to. There’s the artist’s signature so that’s the good thing. Problem is....

After escaping from the confines of his original world, Eingesperrt City, and, with the help Sound, joined Avarus and assumed the title of Noise. Unlike others that were gathered in the past, Noise is a regular human being. Something only Sound knows. Regardless of the danger, he became one of the leaders for Tunera Clypse, later joining Mythral after adapting to his new lifestyle.

He wears one of the Artifacts in order to copy and use only one ability of his choosing. As long as a piece of original user is within the Artifact, Noise can use it for as long as he wants. However, if its been removed and replaced with something else, the previous copied ability cannot be used ever again.

Since his recruitment, Noise adopted an extremely lazy personality. He’s so lazy that somehow even snoring consumes too much energy. To make sure he’s awake most of the time, Sound forced Noise to set up a sleep schedule, so that when he’s ready, he has enough energy to do SOMETHING. However, no matter where he is, he’ll take every opportunity to take a nap. He doesn’t care. As long as he gets to close his eyes, Noise is fine to sleep wherever, even if it involves napping righ at the edge of a volcano.

He’ll get annoyed if anyone that dares try to wake him up and he’ll be in a fowl mood for the rest of the day. The only exception is the fox girl and his lover. Despite this, he displays a certain degree of kindness. It’s just really hard to tell if what he’s doing is truly an act of kindness or he’s just too lazy to do things such as delivering a ‘motivational speech’. He can be blunt when he has to be, and he tends to come off as a jackass rude because of his personality. However, this is his way of showing he cares. Noise will flat out tell you if he dislikes you.

Another thing to know about him is his crude sense of humor. Combined with his blunt and rude nature towards people, mostly acquaintances and strangers, it always leads to various... Misunderstandings. Worst case scenario? A fight. He'd improve if he could, but he won't.

Look, if you haven't figure out that he's lazy after reading all this, gooood luck.

For reasons unknown, despite becoming the next Vessel of Sloth, it remains dormant within him. They thought of extracting it to learn the causes that led up to its current dormant state, but Sound intervened in time as he knew that extracting it by force will kill the the vessel.

. . .

Michael/Raphael/Gabriel/Uriel/Saraqael/Raguel/Remiel/etc

‘Dragons are raised under the false pretense that they are the supreme species above all others. But that merely obscures the truth; the truth that we’re just as vulnerable as anyone else. There are various ways to kill aside from piercing our hearts with a spear.”

Author’s Note: Just so you know, HE’S BLONDE and has green eyes! This was the only option I have that closely resembles how I envisioned him! There was another because he gives off the same atmosphere when you look at him but... he’s from an otome game. And I only learned that recently so, if the same goes for this one? WELP. Oh and he has patches of dark brown scales on part of his skin.

Neither a Quietus Nors nor a resident of Avarus, Michael is a dragon. His version of his race if capable of transformation, but can only change into the form of the last creature they devoured. Whole. Rather than his true form, in order to remain working in Avarus, chose to work in the form of the former Prince of Edrakon, a world where dragons were enslaved and cruelly treated as mere objects. Despite his appearance not being his own, he maintains an intimidating and powerful aura, which is easily distinguishable even within a large crowd.

Due to the high esteem he holds towards his race and his pride as a Dragon, he can come off as domineering, even becoming critical towards other versions of his race if he finds something illogical or nonsensical in their appearance and their abilities. While he does act this way, he finds it absolutely disgusting to find dragons place themselves in a position of power and abuses their power in controlling another species. Another aspect of him is that he looks down on dragons with physical defects, which is mostly directly aimed as himself due to his extremely poor eyesight. Thus, forcing him to rely on his human form to watch glasses. He also has a very confusing naming system; where he changes his name based on the date, time and temperature.

Micheal held the potential required to become a Nors, but because of his age, he was unable to undergo the necessary steps to fully integrate into Avarus. While others are reluctant to have him join their ranks, several others, for different reasons, allowed him to remain. This eventually allowed others to accept his addition to the organization. 

As the one in charge of organizing and handling most of Avarus’ internal affairs, a job the Nors, even the Ex-Anima/Animus, are reluctant in taking up such an important position; he takes his job very seriously. Although he does express some contempt towards humans, this does not extend to the people he works with. He cares about them to a certain degree, which is shown by he constantly reprimands whoever acts risky during a mission.

He is the current Vessel of Pride, something he only learns of later on. Despite the fact Micheal is a vessel, Belial believes this is only temporary. He isn’t particularly close with Belial, but he respects the God enough to follow his orders.

. . .

Ulric Soknawo

'In my tribe, I was considered an outcast. You can thank the unnatural union that birthed me. Now? It hasn’t changed much, but at least I’m no longer considered the runt of the pack.’

Whose other name is Kuckunniwi, is a former member of the Aniwaya Tribe. In their world, his people are Natives who worshipped a guardian Wolf Spirit. According to them, in return for their unyielding loyalty and devoted nature, it granted the people with the power to take the form of the spirit they have worshipped for many generations. So long as they use that power to protect the forest, it shall provide them protection. Ulric is the third, second youngest, illegitamate son of the Tribal chief Tamaska and grandson of Wolfram.

As per tradition, all tribesmen are given two names, one for their human form while the other is for their inner wolf. Despite being allowed to use either name like others of his tribe, he refuses to be use his wolf name due to the meaning behind it. After being discovered by Ayane, she brought and recruited him to Avarus. Ulric is considered to be a Third Generation Nors due the fact his father was (oddly) not born a Nors, or had to potential to be converted into one.

Ulric tends to act like the stereotypical lone-wolf, choosing to remain in solitude and observe from a distance. He likes to spend his quiet time alone, though he does allow others to sit next to him when asked. Many have pointed out that he never smiles, but, as much as he hates to quote Noise, states that if there is no reason to smile, there is no reason to put so much effort in abusing his facial muscles.

As much as he loves being a wolf, he finds certain aspects of his second nature to be... aggravating. Depending on the season and the weather, it deals a the effects his wolf instincts on his human nature. Because of the two separate natures continually clashing, he tends to act irritable and his temper worsens, especially during the night. Ulric holds a strong belief that one’s nature, regardless of your race, should never control a one's personal feelings.

He holds an unyielding loyalty to his loved ones, almost to the point of willing to kill for them if the situation calls for it, but his actions are subtle and tends to be the exact opposite of how he truly feels. Only two people in his life have been able to decipher his behavior, and he cherishes them for it. Ulric has a bit of a temper as well but is able to keep it in check. His temper, however, is what led him to becoming a Cursed Blood. His curse forces him to foresee the deaths of whomever he romantically falls in love (or at least feel an interest) with.

Any attempts at interfering will only hasten their death.

. . .

Xavier Wozwald Hawthorne

'Murderers are dumbasses, always killing because of their unchecked emotions and pented up desires. Hence why most of them clumsily try to hide their crime. Serial killers are more... sofisticated with their craft, but their ego always gets in the way. If they weren’t complete dumbasses, they would have lived a long comfortable life. I should know.’

Note: Yes, this is obviously Vflower. Did I know that before? No. Do I plan to change the art reference? Yes, but only when I find one that’s not a god dang real-life person’s online avatar. XD Seriously, each time I thought I found one... it’s an utaite or vtuber.

Is a member of Mythral and a First Generation Nors. Like Rei, he is a Floater, which allows him to particiate in mission for all three factions. However, he prefers to work with those in Tunera Clypse as, since they mostly handle scouting and recruiting missions. As long as he doesn’t remain in Avarus for too long, he's fine with accepting any mission related to Tunera. Xavier will still accept missions from other factions, but that's merely to fill up his quota.

Despite appearing around the age 12-14; which was not by choice, Xavier is in fact mentally older than most of his fellow Nors. Known for his sharp tongue, Xavier is one of the few known Nors to have been granted permission to travel outworld immediately after undergoing the Ascenscion Ceremony.

Due to the experiences his past life went through, Xavier has a very grim outlook of the world and displays little to no respect towards authority figures. And that includes his current patron God; Belial, which only worsens after being told by the God that he is unable to help Xavier grow into the appropriate intended size. Unlike most Nors, he displays a high degree of critical thinking and intelligent. He is, if not more, level-headed than one of his friends; Percy. Though that doesn’t stop the teasing. While confident in his abilities in terms of combat, Xavier knows the limits of his current smaller body.

In order to compensate, he creates an excessively large scythe as compensation, but he's too proud to admit this.

Because of his level of maturity, he has been labeled as a 'Midget Grandpa'. Which he fails at trying to prove otherwise by collecting certain tthings that are considered out of date by their standards. Eventually, it became a soft of hobby for him to collect such things.

Xavier tends to display a sadistic nature while in combat, choosing to taunt his opponent by constantly pointing our their obvious flaws deficits and toy with them until the last minute. Most times, he will use his child-like appearance to his advantage to further torment his opponent/victim. Comically enough, if his opponent is a cold-blooded criminal, Xavier will compliment and , depending on their actions, congratulate them; much to the annoyance of those involved.

Like Sound, he has both a Physical and Blood-based Curse, but unlike  the latter, Xavier was born with both. His Physical Curse has caused severe permanent scarring on his right arm, making it appear similar to third degree burns. If freed from any type of coverage, such as bandages, his arm will painfully be set a blazed, forcing him to conceal his arm at all times. As a Cursed Blood, Xavier has a similar effect of a Siren, except his hypnotic singing forces someone to commit suicide. Every time he uses this curse, he temporarily falls into a coma.

. . .

Succu(bus) Kilmer

Like her name suggests, Succu is a succubus, but belongs to a different version of her species. Due to being a demon, she is forbidden to reveal her true name. Succu is neither a Nors nor a Cursed Blood. She’s more of an illegal immigrant after sneaking her way into a group of Nors when they were scouting for potential recruits. There have been many attempts in trying to relocate her back to her original world, but she is able to seduce her attackers and slip away. Eventually, Belial declared that she will be allowed to remain as a resident, so long as she contributes in their mission to locate Soleil.

While they do seduce those of the opposite sex, her source of food is not as grotesque as several others. She does seduce her victim, but moves her body in a way that her victims find alluring. Succu will then massage certain parts of their body as a means to relax them. To assure that they will not attempt to escape, she will release pheremones that nulls the victims senses. What she devours isn’t the flesh of her victim nor does she devour their soul, she merely devours the emotions she was able to invoke until her hunger is quenched.

Succu is flirtaceous and very... very.... VERY- Well, you get the point. While she doesn’t flaunt her beauty, she does know how to use it to her advantage. However, despite many approaching her, Succu has only eyes for one, and is willing to wait as long as possible for that person to reciprocate her feelings. Succu, although assertive and open with her feelings, is not the type to force them onto someone.

She does like to express herself by getting physical - very physical. Not the way that you’re thinking, you perverts. She finds it more convenient to allow her actions to talk rather than saying things verbally. Since she’s an outsider, she notices several things that not even Pery or Ulric have noticed, and both are outsiders as well considering the fact they grew up outworld before being recruited. Regardless, she remains silent for the sake of remaining by her beloved’s side.

Succu is often mistaken as the Vessel of Lust due to her nature, and, on her part, finds it’s tiresome to prove that she is not.

Side Characters

Tank Mortem

A former member of Tunera Clypse and Mythral, Tank has been assigned to act as one of the engineers in maintaining the Infernian Generator due to his body’s condition and the issues of his mental state. He seldom participates in missions but, despite being given strict orders not to, joins in anyway. Due to the limits of his mental capacity, Tank has difficulty interacting with others. Quite literally.

Beatrix Staccato

Is a researcher and inventor in charge of the tools and weaponry utilized by most Nors and Ex-Animus. Having taken over most of the unfinished projects since the passing of his master, Beatrix has dedicated all of his time in improving the welfare of the world and its inhabitants. However, most of his experiments tend to be a bit... over the top. If he’s not thinking of new potential products that may benefits the Nors, he’ll make whatever comes at the top of his head, and most of the time it’ll lead him to make the most outrageous and unnecessary items. Beatrix prefers to remain in his lab/home at all times, rendering his social interactions with the three factions to be limited via holographic meetings.

‘Nyx’ Pierrot

Leader of Vanidicus Persona, she is one of the oldest Nors - next to Constantine - making her the default leader of her faction. Much about her is a mystery. Even her behavior can be viewed as... questionable. Not outlandish, that’s Sound’s department. Her behavior is so odd that it’s enough to baffle even Belial. She takes her leadership over her faction very seriously, however, as part of her nature, the requirements in joining and maintaining your membership vastly deviates from the original. However, looks can be deceiving. Aside from her seniority, there is a reason why she was given the position of leader.

Mitchell Pierrot

He prefers to be called as ‘Mitch’ after being told, and proven, by his sister how much of a tongue twister his name is if repeated constantly in a single conversation. While he is the younger brother of Nyx, Mitch opted to become a submember of Tunera Clypse upon undergoing the Ascension Ceremony to be in the same faction as his mentor, Perseus Vlahos. Compared to the Nors in his batch, he is viewed as weak by many as he is unable to perform the abilities that is expected of him to develop after becoming a Nors.

Constantine L. Refrain

Nothing is truly known about him except that he’s a chronic smoker. Nobody truly knows who he is, no one even knows which faction he belongs to. It’s nearly impossible to question these things as he is constantly surrounded by a shroud of - barely tolerable - smoke. All that is known is that he’s been around longer than most of the Ex-Animus. Constantine usually frequints the Silent Siren Bar, staying there for hours until he’s either drunk or needs to receive another pack of cigarretes from Beatrix. He says they’re for medicinal purposes buuuuut...

I’m pretty sure black smoke isn’t normal.

Stefan Mal Sorcier

Is Percy’s second pupil. Although, it was more like Percy was forced into taking in another after his continual refusal to become leader of Infernum Poncitator. Outwardly, he is aloof and always appears smiling, which unsettles Mitchell even when they’re alone. His politeness is found unusual by many and causes others to feel wary around him. Even the dragon finds himself is unable to remain in the same vicinity as the young man. Despite being full of many secrets, Percy accepts him as is and tries his best to teach him all he can, which Stefan appreciates.

Kyline Necro

Considered as the mascot ambassador of Avarus, like the soul that was fused with her upon birth, she mostly lounges around and has little participation in any missions in and out of Avarus. This has caused her to be disliked by many, most especially Ayane. The only person Kyline has gotten close to is Noise; mostly because they share the same favored sleeping spot. On a side, she acts a physician, or surgeon if you like to get technical. She has a strange fondness of picking apart and replacing specific limbs with doll parts.

Yu-Yan Chi Ryou

Was once one of the strongest Nors from Xavier’s batch until he was inflicted by an unknown disease during one of his missions. While there is no name for the disease, it has caused much of his bones to undergo crystallization; rendering him immobile due to the pain that comes from even the smallest of movements. Since he is incapable in participating in any activities, Yu-Yan has since been forced to be confined to a wheel chair for the rest of his life.

Anita Eine Kleine

Is the fighting instructor of the Mongrels and a member of Infernum Poncitator. Anita is a highly-skilled caster, able to conjure and manipulate various elements. She absolutely hates the term ‘witch’, even going as far as to cast a minor curse in making a person temporarily mute if they refer to her as one. Which Sound found rather offensive when he found out about the curse, something she deeply apologized for. She participates in some Scouting Missions but only if personally requested by someone from Tunera Clypse.

Victor Stein

Is Beatrix’s (only living) research assistant. He is the sole survivor of the Night of the Black Moon. Although having physically recovered, the damage to his mental state has left a deep scar on his psyche. He fears yet obsesses over the sensation of pain. There is not one instance where he isn’t found sowing over his own intact skin. While Victor knows his addiction found uncomfortable by others, he finds it extremely difficult to control his urges.

Wolfram

Grandfather of Ulric and most of his siblings, he is an Ex-Anima (or retired Nors) and a former member of the original Mythral. As the more experienced and one of the longest surviving resident of Avarus, he acts as a mentor to those who seek his guidance. However, in terms of combat, his skills are very limited as he has become permanently stuck in his wolf form. The only grandchildren he's ever personally met are Ulric and Seeing, who have both ironically became his favorite. While acting as a mentor, he is rather strict, constantly parting lessons in order to make sure none make the same mistakes he committed when he was younger, many of which he refuses to share.

Diantha Anemone

Despite being still a Liberi, Dia still participates in many activities meant to be done only by Nors. She originally wanted to become a part of Tunera Clypse due to the many adventures imparted by Sound. But after having a first hand experience in one, it traumatized her to the point where she wants to merely work as a Librarian, a position many people avoid.

Echo & Yell

Fellow teammates of Sound and Noise. As part of the four heads leaders that overwatch many of Tunera Clypse's activities, both in and out of Avarus. They mostly take charge of delegating the members while the other two take an active role in leading many scouting missions off-world. Contradicting her name, like Sound and Noise, her personality is the completely opposite. Due to her sociophobia, she is extremely shy and is unable to speak when talked to, only whispering her sentences as she talks. Yell, however, is the only one whose personality fits the mantle she inherited. Due to her curse, she has to raise her voice after every two hours. If not, she will fall into a coma, and she can only be awaken by *************.

Important Figures

Belial

Credits to: @airtrees0507 (Again, another artist who... disappeared from the internet. How do I keep finding refrences where the artist is just gone?)

Is a Celestial and the younger brother of Soleil. However, despite his godly status, he does not have any of the expected gifts. Neither a god of creation, life, or death, he has been given the title God of Void by his peers. Because of this, he is incapable of maintaining Avarus by himself, forcing him to use alternative (and questionable) means in preserving the world his sister created. Like his title, Belial is unable to express emotions, giving blank demeanor. He does, however, hold some semblence of emotions within him. Yet despite this, he has little to no understanding of life, death and emotions. Even after centuries since he over his sister’s role as Patron God, he still has no understanding to all living things, almost to the point of coming off as insensitive and heartless.

Belial has a deep devotion to his sister, having gone through great lengths to make sure to maintain her world and willingly sacrifice the lives of many. Despite knowing her distaste towards such acts, he holds onto the hope of one day finding her.

Soleil

Credits: Um... Lucare Eu??? Sorry, I’m just basing it off the signature. Once again, can’t find the artist themself so...

The true patron goddess of Avarus and the older sister of Belial. Aside from her status as the original creator and caretaker of her world and the life that once flourished within it, not much is known about her. While her exact cause of death is unknown, she was cursed to live an endless cycle of death and rebirth in various worlds. In order to restore the world she created and loved dearly, Belial dedicated his life in searching for her soul and freeing her of her curse. As a Celestial, she was said to have chosen to take the form of her first ever creation and first mortal friend. 

It is said that, despite having blessed with the gift of creation, she was known to be a lonely goddess. Those that new her describe as someone that’s physically there but is spiritually detached.

The Oracle

Is a title given to those with the ability to commune and guide the spirits to the Empyrean Plain, more specifically Avarus’ residences due to the absence of Soleil. The Oracle acts as the divine anchor on the world to aid Belial in prolonging the world’s existence. They are also the main source of Belial’s divine power; both of which are maintained through her prayers. The gender and species of the Oracle is non-specific, but it if preferred by Belial if they are humanoid and have the ability of speech for the sake of communication.

The current Oracle is Aniela Fischl, who, unlike her predecessors, is able to foresee various futures. She does so by carefully peeking through the leylines and selects various possibilities that solely benefit Avarus. No one is allowed to meet her except Belial and her assigned Seekers.

The Seekers

The guardians, caretaker, and acting medians between the Oracle and the residents of Avarus. Their duty is to ensure that the chosen Oracle remains within the Spiral Tower and that he/she fulfills their duty, even going as far as to grant their wish regardless of the consequenses. Each Seeker has only one desire, and that’s to protect the Oracle at all times.

Races

Liberi

Age Range: Birth or 5 to 10 years

Although that is the official term, ‘Mongrel’ is what they are commonly referred as. It is the used for the for the children taken to or born in Avarus. Mongrels spend most of their young lives training within the safe walls of the Aldebaran Academy. They are forbidden from leaving as, according to Belial, they are the extremely fragile during this point of their lives. Regardless of their age, depending on how well they’ve performed in training, they will be given the right of undergoing the Ascension Ceremony. Those who fail are xxxxxxxx xx.

Due to their young age, their behavior is more sporadic than that of a normal child. Their reflexes are enhanced, almost to the point where it becomes difficult to contain them. Mongrels lack common sense so they tend to act out without fully understanding the impact their actions have. While childish and friendly by nature, Travellers are advised to approach with caution. Those who act beyond the expected norm are called Prodigies.

Quietus Nors

Age Range: (Physically) 14-19, (Mentally) 10 or above

Or simply called, Nors. After their graduation, every Nors is immediately sent to work. Depending on the final results of their training prior to undergoing the ceremony/procedure, each is individually assigned into one of the three factions ; Infernum Poncitator, Vanidicus Persona, and lastly, Tunera Clypse (formerly called Tunera). Those that are assigned to neither of the factions are assigned to more menial jobs alongside the Ex-Animus,

Despite their young minds, they have quickly adapted into their new forms. Due to time becoming almost non-existant in Avarus, Nors age at a rapidly slow rate. Though known to be childish by nature due to the gap of their young minds to their bodies, they dangerously lack empathy and display little to no compassion and remorse towards others. In worst cases, some act selfishly on their own accord. On a positive note, they lack any emotions that may hinder their mission in locating Soleil; such as fear.

Only two of the three current generations of Nors differ greatly from the first:

First Generation Nors - Are those converted or directly born within Avarus with the blood of two Nors. Those born in the first generation share two specific physical characteristics; raven black hair and golden eyes. They all share the same abilities upon conversion/birth, but it depends on the individual which ones they should master. Unless they happen to be a Cursed Blood, they are unable to obtain different abilities to call their own. They are required to undergo the Ascension Ceremony.

Second Generation Nors - In terms of personality, they are considered half as bad as those in the first gen. Unlike the previous, second generation Nors are considered slightly weaker, however, they have a better chance of obtaining other abilities outside of Avarus. Their hair is slightly lighter shade of black but their eyes remain the same. They too are required to undergo the Ascension Ceremony.

Third Generation Nors - While rare, they do tend to appear once in a while. It’s not exact how one falls into this category. The closest is being the grandchild or who has an anscestor that was a Nors. Because of their circumstances, these Nors are far weaker as they cannot use any of the standard abilities. Third Generation Nors are far difficult to locate as their potential doesn’t surface until they are of a much later age, rendering them incapable of taking necessary training to hone their abilities and undergoing the Ascension Ceremony. They do not share the common personality or physical traits of a Nors. One thing every Nors in this generation share are sky blue eyes, which emit a faint glow when in the dark.

Ex-Animus (or Anima for singular)

Age Range: (Physically) 30 to 40, rarely appears in their early 20′s

Are individuals who are retired from their duties as a Nors. Although Nors generally age at an excessively slow rate (due to the effects of Avarus), after a number of cycles (which refers to the number of batches that underwent the Ascension Ceremony), they will be given the order to retire. Regardless whether they are willing to or not, there is nothing they can do once the order has been issued. Once one becomes an Ex-Anima, they are completely cut off from their original faction and are unable to leave Avarus for the rest of their life.

Not only that, they are unable to defend themselves like they used to as they can no longer control Astral Dust and use the abilities from their time as a Nors,Basically.  Basically, Ex-Animus’ are left to fend for themselves.

Factions

Every Nors is allowed to join any of the three factions; Infernum Poncitator, Vanidicus Persona , and Tunera Clypse. There is an option to not join any of the factions; they are called ‘Floaters’.

[atamascolily]

Shield of Lies has a “Two Towers”-type narrative structure, where we spent one third of the book with Lando, Luke, and Leia respectively instead of switching back and forth. At least it makes it easier to focus on the parts I’m interested in?

The cover art is very generic Star Wars, but I like the composition and the color scheme and the very ROTJ Luke with the green lightsaber. A+ work from Drew Struzan there.

The book has a Dramatis Personae, which is probably good because there are an awful lot of OCs here.

“Can’t you use the Force to speed us up?”

“You need a lever and a place to stand,” Luke said wryly. “The Force isn’t a magic wand—there are limits.”

“All limits exist in the mind, not the Universe,” Akanah said. “I’m surprised your tutors never taught you that.”

Luke shook his head. “Obi-Wan and Yoda both taught me to see that we limit ourselves by not trying and sabotage ourselves by believing we’ll fail.”

This is hilarious because Luke just spent most of the last book cursing how slow the ship was.

“No one’s been in the ship but us,” Luke said firmly. “And this isn’t going to be much of a partnership if you’re keeping secrets from me. Don’t you trust me, Akanah?”

“I know you to be a good man,” said Akanah. “But some of what you do and believe makes me uncomfortable. In the long run, I have never known a warrior or a soldier to be a friend.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Luke said softly. “And the lightsaber now only comes to my hand to protect people I care about. Is that a warrior, or a friend?”

It’s interesting to contrast the Fallanassi, who appear to be Actual Pacifists, with the Jedi, who are willing to get their hands dirty when necessary. Maybe because the Jedi deal with politics while the Fallanassi remain isolated? This could be a really interesting conversation, but mostly just skims the surface of the ethics here.

“But the Fallanassi change names, styles of dress, habits of speech, even the way we groom our hair, to blend in, to disappear. Unless I can be face-to-face with them, exchange the signs, let them feel me beside them in the Current, they would not reveal themselves, out of fear that I was not what I seemed to be.”

Makes perfect sense if they are masters of illusions not to trust anything based on their senses alone.

“Maybe there’s a way to do this without getting near the motivator. What do you have for tools?”

“I—I’m not sure. I thought you would use the Force somehow,” she said. “Bend a contact, or break a trace—”

Luke shook his head. “You have to know exactly how something’s put together before you try that sort of trick—and I’ve never even had my hands inside the access panel of an Adventurer.”

“You’re destroying all my illusions about the all-powerful Jedi,” Akanah said with a hint of a smile.

Laughing lightly, Luke climbed out of the pilot’s seat. “The truth is that, most of the time, the Force is no substitute for a tech droid or a tool kit. And I’ve never known a Jedi who wanted it to get around that he could fix broken appliances.”

This exchange would be more believable if Luke hadn’t just spent most of the first book RESURRECTING A FUCKING CASTLE WITH HIS MIND, I’m just saying.

“Boys and machines,” he could hear his Aunt Beru saying with bemusement. “What is it about boys and machines?”

His life then had consisted of little more than tinkering. The greater part by far of his chores on the farm had been trying to keep Uncle Owen’s motley collection of secondhand droids and second-quality moisture vaporators running. After chores, Luke had invested his free time in coaxing a little more speed from the XP-30 landspeeder he had rescued from the Anchorhead salvage yard, and tweaking the performance of the family’s T-16 skyhopper for those races in Beggar’s Canyon.

Teenage impatience had made him view Tatooine as a wasteland and the farm as a prison. But that world looked better seen through a filter of time and experience. And he realized belatedly just how much he had enjoyed those hours with his head and hands inside an engine service panel, in a simple, knowable world of which he was the master.

“You look happy,” said Akanah softly. She had returned from the flight deck without his noticing.

“I am,” he said, twisting and looking up at her. It was a surprising discovery.

Like, literally, Luke is depressed because he’s forgotten how to do things the slow way - I think that’s the lesson here? Contrast with Jacen’s insistence that he can use the Force for everything and doesn’t need to exercise his body (oddly, Jaina and Anakin don’t seem to believe this, just Jacen.)

At least you’re here to have it,” Luke said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to feel guilty about saving you.”

“What about killing those two men—do you feel anything about that?”

“One of them killed himself,” Luke said, pulling his feet up out of the hatchway and turning to face her

ANSWER THE QUESTION, LUKE!!!

Luke eased himself back against the bulkhead on his side of the compartment. “I guess the truth is that, at the moment, I wasn’t particularly worried about whether I killed him or not.”

She shook her head slowly. “That is so hard for me to understand—how you could not be aware of the power in your hands.”

“The power that mattered to me was the power to protect you from them,” said Luke. “You told me afterward that you weren’t in any danger, but that wasn’t how it looked.”

“Yes,” said Akanah. “I understand that. But, Luke, there’s something I must ask of you—that you never again kill to save me. I am glad that you cared about me, but it makes my heart sick, my spirit heavy, to have the screams and the blood of those men in my memory, in the ruins of a place that I loved.”

“I don’t know if I can make you that promise,” Luke said. “I have my own conscience to satisfy. And sometimes it demands that I fight for my friends.”

“That you kill for your friends.”

“When it’s necessary.”

“Is that how you see the Jedi? Are they ready to kill to protect their friends on Coruscant?”

This is good, but Luke needed to have this conversation TEN YEARS AGO when he was first starting out, not ex post facto.

Luke’s gaze narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to understand,” Akanah said. “I want to know what your Jedi mean to the New Republic, and what the New Republic means to you. Are you training the Jedi Knights to be Coruscant’s warrior elite? What are you willing to do when the commander-in-chief calls on you?”

“That isn’t the way it works,” Luke said. “Leia doesn’t give orders to the Jedi. She can ask us for help-one of us or all of us—but we can refuse. And sometimes do.”

“But the Republic supports your academy. You had a military spacecraft in your hangar. Can you afford to offend them?”

“The Jedi aren’t mercenaries,” Luke said, an edge in his voice. “When we fight, it’s an individual choice—and it’s in defense of the principles of our creed. Coruscant supports the academy because the memory of the Jedi is a powerful force for stability. Our presence is what they want most.”

“That’s the part of the tradition that concerns me,” said Akanah. “The guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic for a thousand generations, or so the legend has it. But if you cannot have both peace and justice, which will you choose?”

“Which would you have me choose?”

“I would choose for you to keep your great gifts beyond the reach of politicians and generals,” she said. “For you to owe them no debts, and take on no causes—”

“I’ve been careful to protect our independence,” said Luke. “Despite appearances.”

“You aren’t sworn to uphold the government on Coruscant? You’ve taken no oaths of allegiance?”

“No. Only those few who’ve chosen to serve in the Fleet, or the ministries. It’s not forbidden. But it’s not common. The Jedi aren’t the Republican Guard. And never will be.”

And at the same time, the Jedi are not answerable to the New Republic for what they do (see: Kyp Durron). So they have power and influence without accountability within the New Republic government. Fortunately, they’re all well-balanced and stable warrior-monks, so there’s no way this can ever go wrong! *cough cough*

“That’s something,” she said. “But how much better it would be if the most powerful symbol of your order—the very emblem of that long tradition—was something other than a deadly weapon.”

“We didn’t ask for that,” Luke said. “It just happened. Old weapons have a cachet.”

“All weapons have a cachet,” said Akanah with sorrow. “Too many men want to either conquer the world or change the world. The second is nearly as dangerous to living things as the first. Can you tell me why is it not enough to find a safe and comfortable place in the world, or—at worst—to find shelter from the world?”

Luke frowned. “No. I can’t.”

I think Luke is grasping at straws here. How does he know it “just happened” that their symbol became a lightsaber? Maybe that’s what it means to him, but all Jedi in the past? Seems a bit of a stretch.

“But they’ll be looking for us everywhere now,” said Akanah from behind. “For you in particular.”

“Looking and finding are two different things. I’ve had to make a habit of disguising myself in public just to be left alone, to go where I please without being gawked at,” Luke said.

“How do you do that?”

“Oh—I make myself look older where youth is honored, and younger where age is honored, female where males are the ones who strut, male where they aren’t. It’s the nearest thing there is to being invisible, being unattractive.”

“Show me.”

Akanah saw his shoulders rise and fall, heard the deep breath that came out almost as a sigh. When he turned his couch toward her and looked up, she saw a sixty-year-old face that reminded her at once of everyone and no one. The eyes were unguarded but vacant, the expression open but bland. There was nothing distinctive about his features, nothing at all to remember him by or for.

So Luke is pretty decent at Force Illusions himself, even if it’s just for disguise purposes. (unlike Corran??)

“Very good,” she said. “May I try something?”

He gestured silently with open hands.

Drawing a shuddery breath, Akanah closed her eyes and moved the focus of her senses behind where Luke seemed to be, groping for an anchor in what was real. When she found it, she opened her eyes again and blew away the illusion with the soft breath of disbelief.

“There you are,” she said, and smiled.

“Very good,” he echoed. “It takes a strong mind to penetrate the illusion.”

This made me go “WHAT?”:

Luke knew he would have to return there when it was safe to do so, and wondered if something should be done to preserve the site. He wondered how the authorities on Lucazec would react if he asked them to protect his mother’s onetime home. If the burned-out ruin of the Lars farm could be rebuilt as a historic monument, perhaps the ruins of Ialtra could be rescued from a hostile neglect by the Skywalker name. Perhaps the reputation of those who had been driven from there could even be rehabilitated.

the thought of Skywalker pilgrimage sites in-universe is so funny to me, I don’t know why.

Located near the juncture of three busy spaceways and wearing a spectacular four-thousand-kilometer-long canyon like a dueling scar, Teyr was one of the New Republic’s boom worlds. Most of the boom was in visitors and vacationers. Fearing unbridled growth, Teyr’s leaders purposefully discouraged would-be immigrants with a maze of regulations, a series of successively higher application hurdles, and a determinedly officious Citizen Services Corps. The unofficial tourism motto was “Come see spectacular Teyr Rift. Then go home.”

LOL.

Anyway, they play at being tourists, and then it’s time for more ethics:

“You brought your lightsaber?” she asked, leaning toward him.

“Yes,” he said. “You sound surprised.”

“How did you get it through Arrival Screening? You can’t fool a scanner with Jedi mind tricks. Can you?”

“You can fool the person whose job it is to respond to scanner alarms,” Luke said. “But even that wasn’t necessary. Lightsabers are still the rarest weapons in the galaxy. There’s only one model of general security scanner that’s programmed to recognize them, and Teyr doesn’t use it.”

“Then what do they think it is?”

Luke smiled. “Most scanners misidentify a lightsaber as a type of shaver. Which I suppose it could be, in a pinch—if you were very, very good with it.”

She settled back in her seat. “I wish you had left it in the ship.”

“That’s asking too much,” Luke said. “I don’t carry it every minute, but I don’t like to be that far away from it. I’ve gotten in more tough spots because of not having it close enough than I ever have for carrying it.”

Akanah doubles down:

“Is there that much pleasure in killing, that it becomes something difficult to give up?”

Luke shot a hard glance across the bubble back at her. “What makes you think I take pleasure in killing?”

“That you won’t renounce it,” she said, turning to meet his gaze. “If I had caused a million deaths, I don’t think I could ever pick up a weapon again. I don’t understand how you can.”

With no ready answer, Luke turned his gaze back toward the flyway ahead. It wasn’t until years after the Battle of Yavin that Luke had first become aware that the Death Star he had destroyed at Yavin had a complement—officers, crew, and support staff—of more than a million sentients.

In retrospect, it was something he should have realized without prompting. But it took a new Battle of Yavin display at the Museum of the Republic on Coruscant to point it out to him. When Luke thought of the Death Star, he associated it with Vader and Tagge and Grand Moff Tarkin, with the stormtroopers who’d tried to kill him in its corridors and the TIE pilots who’d tried to kill him above its surface, with the superlaser gun crews who had obliterated defenseless Alderaan.

But the signs at the massive cutaway model of the Death Star in the museum had spelled out the numbers in its table of specifications, and Luke could still recite them: 25,800 stormtroopers, 27,048 officers, 774,576 crew, 378,685 support staff—

“One million, two hundred five thousand, one hundred nine,” Luke said quietly. “Not counting the droids.”

The calm precision of the recitation brought a look of startled horror to her face.

I know, I know, this is pre-Mindor, but still... Luke isn’t even aware of it until a museum exhibit points it out?? Though the fact that he memorized the numbers implies that it weighs more heavily on him than he pretends.

“But you have to look at both sides of the ledger,” Luke went on. “Alderaan. Obi-Wan. Captain Antilles. Dutch. Tiree. Dack. Biggs—” Luke shook his head. “Sometimes your enemies don’t give you much choice—kill them, give up, or be killed. And if you think I should have done anything other than what I did—”

“The past is fixed, unalterable,” Akanah said. “What I care about is what you’ll do today, or tomorrow. I know your past—I know your heritage—and I have already seen you kill once. Can’t you understand how alien and abhorrent this is to me—to those who gave Nashira shelter?”

Luke is still locked in that damn duality, unable to see any options outside of the two extremes, this continues to be a theme ARRGH

“I move through the world without one,” she said. “Could you not do the same?”

Luke slowly shook his head. “Not while I still call myself a Jedi. It’s more than a weapon—it’s a tool for training the mind and the body. And it’s become part of me—an extension of my will.”

“And a way to enforce your will on others.”

He shook his head. “Most of the discipline of the lightsaber has to do with defense.”

“What about the rest?”

“The rest—the rest requires that you get close to your adversary, close enough to have to look them in the eye,” Luke said. “An old-fashioned idea, and a civilizing one. If all you want is to kill quickly, efficiently and impersonally, a blaster is a much better choice—the Emperor’s stormtroopers didn’t carry lightsabers, after all.”

“All of my nightmares are of places where there are men who want to kill ‘efficiently,’” Akanah said, turning her face back to the viewpane. “And the worst nightmare of all is to think that the only Universe that is, is such a place.”

Again, we’re back to dualism - lightsaber or blasters?. Luke is forgetting that Obi-wan was strategic about his lightsaber use - he didn’t just whip it out and slaughter the stormtroopers in Mos Eisley - he used the mind trick - and he only used it in the cantina after exhausting all the possible options. Akanah is asking him to look beyond, to consider a third way and he just. can’t. do it. ARRGH.

[idreamtofmanderleyagain]

Hellraiser Fandom and the Invisibility of Women’s Abuse

I’m starting to come to terms with why the Last Drive In interviews stuck with me in a bad way.

It kind of eluded me for a while, but to give you guys the emotional lead-up to what was underlying my sense of discomfort and irritation, let me explain a few things. When I heard the interview was going to happen, I watched some portions of a different Last Drive In episode to get a sense of what the whole thing was about. It’s your standard hosted horror movie show. 

It’s also awkwardly sexist. They have a character on it, Darcy The Mail Girl, who as far as I could tell in my first viewing, basically exists on the show to be ogled and be the butt of sexual humor. The men filming would even break the fourth wall to snicker and whistle when she would say something sexual. In 2020, it was extraordinarily cringe-worthy to watch, and I’m at a loss that we’re still living in a world where this is normalized. It was like watching something from the 80′s. She is extremely objectified on the show. 

I don’t blame her for this. Apparently, she was the victim of some awful bullying and body-shaming fairly recently, and I don’t want to put more suffering on that girl’s shoulders. I respect her. I think she respects herself. The circumstances surrounding a woman being in a position like this are complicated, and I do not pretend to understand her situation. She’s also allowed her own feelings about what she can and cannot handle, and what is and is not okay with her.

Nevertheless, the segment I saw in that other episode with Darcy was alienating and even rather upsetting. I felt a second-hand humiliation and pain. I didn’t feel like Darcy was put in a position where she was in control of her own sexual expression. Perhaps Darcy’s actress disagrees with me, and that’s fine. But as a female audience member, I was already feeling a sense of unease and unwelcome.

So I was obviously primed for discomfort before the interviews even started.

Joe Bob Briggs (the host) said a few things that did not sit quite right with me. Quite frankly, he repeated some more annoying fanboy statements that tend to stick in my craw. His rather basic interpretation of the film, juxtaposed against the awkward, stifling feeling of watching Doug and Ashley try to explain the deeper concepts that eluded him reminded my of my own frustrations listening to the male fans of these films’ constant comprehension failure.

How many times does Doug have to repeat the words he’s basically memorized by heart regarding the tragedy and complex nature of Pinhead? Why does this get forgotten, glossed over, even retconned so much?

Why does it always feel like Ashley gets disregarded? Every time we see an interview with her (which is comparatively rare), nobody really speaks to the deeper thoughts she expresses on her character or the narrative, but every man in the comments has something to say about her hotness level.

When we got to the point that Ashley tried to explain to Briggs that she thought Pinhead was fair in a certain scene, and that Pinhead was speaking to Kirsty’s accountability for her own desires, Briggs responds incredulously; “You think Kirsty OWES Pinhead?!” 

Ashley had spent a portion of the interview having to dismiss the relevance of characters like Steve and Kyle in Kirsty’s life, and was now suggesting a deeper subtext in her interactions with Pinhead that both A) did not cast Kirsty as pure and sexless and without culpability, and B) did not cast Pinhead as her aggressor but as her psychological mirror. 

This is the subtext that is most often disregarded by casual fans and some hardcore fans alike, that Kirsty may not be the innocent and sexless Final Girl, and that Pinhead may not be the predatory Slasher monster intent on using a sharp weapon to penetrate her violently for his own gratification, and that dynamic may not be the be-all-end all of their relationship for the rest of time.

I’ve been turning Brigg’s incredulous response around in my brain for a while. And it’s made me realize something about how men experience Hellraiser’s narrative, and why it differs so greatly for many women.

Doug has more than once spoken to the fact that women react to Pinhead very differently than men. He was of course speaking of the sexual interest he would get, but he has remarked upon the fact at least once that he’s not entirely sure why that is, exactly.

It’s...not that strange to me that women desire rather than fear the character, or that Ashley would have a more positive response to Kirsty’s relationship with him rather than her relationships with the seemingly benign boys of the films. 

There is an order to which women first learn about sex. For some it’s a little different but I believe this is a fairly common experience: The very first thing we learn is that it’s going to hurt (but maybe also feel good after). The second thing we learn is that boys will want to take it from us and will manipulate and lie to us to get it, but that it’s supposed to happen in a loving relationship. The third thing we learn is that we want it too, but we aren’t supposed to because it’s dirty and wrong for us to want it. 

Women grow up with an inherent anxiety around sex, an anxiety that is complicated by our own desires.

Everything in Hellraiser is perfectly reflective of a reality that men clearly do not have the context to fully comprehend, because women’s real experiences of desire, and of male violence, are a blind spot.

The men who hurt women don’t have pins in their head and wax gothic poetry about suffering. They don’t wear dark capes and turn into bats and hypnotize women from their windows to drink their blood. 

The men who hurt women look like Frank, or J.P. Monroe, or Trevor, or Channard, or every bumbling aggressive fool Julia seduced home. 

They look like Larry and Steve. 

Larry let his wife scream “no” and “stop” several times before he responded, regardless of the true reasons she was screaming those words. And when he finally did stop, it was out of anger rather than concern. This is, as far as I’m aware, the most common form of sexual violence a woman can experience - a man they give their trust to suddenly doesn’t respect a “no.”

So, so many times, I have heard men say how badly they felt for Larry, how innocent poor Larry was. 

Men live in a fantasy world where it’s more comfortable for them to imagine characters like Larry as good man, a victim of Julia’s callousness who isn’t in Hell not because he never touched the box, but because he is inherently innocent. They live in a fantasy world where it’s odd that Steve abandoned Kirsty the minute something deeply traumatic happened to her (Briggs remarked upon this). Raise your hand if a man has done the same to you when the cards where down.

Steve’s response to Kirsty getting too drunk to stand properly was to “jokingly” tell her to lie down in this sleazeball way that indicated he was insinuating taking advantage of her intoxicated state. Also one of the most common forms of sexual violence a woman can experience.

The men who Julia took home would respond aggressively when she chickened out of sex, either blindly or in an attempt to shame and guilt her into proceeding.

Should we talk about the fact that Kyle is a psychiatrist who shouldn’t be romancing a traumatized patient in his care who’s parent was just fucking brutally murdered? Or does that feel too petty in comparison?

The men who hurt women are more typically their friends, their fathers, their uncles, their boyfriends, their husbands.

What’s so funny about all of this is that Pinhead somehow does better at consent than these men, at least in a manner of speaking. He’s the only man who legitimately listens to Kirsty, and responds to her “no.” No matter what he threatens, he always stops to hear her out, lets her do what she wants, is always talking about her desires and pleasure, and in the end always ends up destroying the men abusing her rather than going through with ever harming her. 

Briggs seemed keen on viewing Pinhead as a Satanic figure. Historically, what is the role of women who are in a position to encounter the devil? Usually, they are witches, wanton women who gain magical power through sexual communion with the devil. A framework of propaganda that men have historically used to persecute women.

The men who hurt and oppress women in real life don’t look or act like Satan, but they sure as hell are ready to write narrative after narrative of Satanic figures menacing women while they save the day, and they sure as hell like to blame women for preferring “bad boys” and “assholes” over the “nice guy.” 

It’s more comfortable for men to imagine Pinhead as this cool figure of pure evil with no feelings or capacity for mercy, because they can live vicariously through his violence (particularly when they’re writing him doing it to half-naked women, looking at you H3) and yet simultaneously distance their moral identities from him. 

It’s more comfortable to compartmentalize what good vs. predatory masculinity looks like in a way that benefits their self-image and the status quo. This is a lie men tell themselves.

It’s safer for men to point to Pinhead and say, “this is what a predator looks like,” while curiously never speaking of the callous, scummy and predatory behavior of every single other man in the films, even to the point of occasionally discussing the perceived tragedy of fucking Frank’s spiral into darkness long before they can feel entirely comfy imagining Pinhead as having a past where he was a good man with sad feelings, or regard his act of self-sacrifice for Kirsty as anything but a moment of weakness that was “bad writing” and therefore should never have happened.

There is an extraordinary irony in a man arguing with Pinhead’s own actor over the nature of his evil, while running a show where a female character’s fuckability is her main characteristic and it’s okay to behave as if she doesn’t even have real feelings.

All this nonsense in the spaces I go to have fun, while we’re dealing with the background radiation of a President who’s sexual abuses are swept under the rug, his masculinity praised regularly and his violence against our people gaslighted. While we’re dealing with the mass-recorded aggressive violence of police - white men in positions of authority whom we are supposed to trust to keep us safe. While men make other men laugh about the violation of girls so they don’t have to deal with the reality of one of the “nice” funny guys being a predator.

Fuck you. I’d rather burn.

[secretsofthedarkestkind-arch]

It was now the third week in March of 1864. Harper had given her Katerina’s letter the day before but she wasn’t able to do more than read it. She had done as Katerina had asked of her, talking to Pearl about the items listed in the letter while also doing some investigation herself. Doing this had taken the youngest Salvatore a little over two days, Lee had given word to Harper to tell Katerina (Katherine) her reply would be delayed, not to worry and all would be explained soon enough. 

She now sat safely tucked into the back of Pearl’s shop, the vampire working out front while Annabelle sat on the couch with one of Lee’s old sketchbooks in hand.

My Dear Katerina, I forgave you before you even asked. I know you say it isn’t selfish but it felt it as I wrote those words. I am glad you are able to see and understand why I would feel that way. The fact you are willing to take that into account for next time, lightens my heart. It is the same reason I asked Harper to return to you before my letter was ready. So you knew I was simply busy, doing as you asked along with my own plans, and that I would reply by the end of the week.

Never once have you lied to me, it is why I trust you as I do. I don’t believe that you ever would, there is no need for lies between us. Our love does not need that complication nor that deception. I will never lie to you, I would rather always be honest--no matter the consequence. I respect you too much. I know you love me. I will keep saying that until it’s no longer needed. As I now know for certain you will not distance yourself from me. It is one thing to believe something and another to fully know.

You say Emily will provide you with knowledge always. Always while not as long as eternally is a very long time. I can feel you have plans--something you are never short on. I swear sometimes I think you have a plan for every possible outcome, maybe as many as there are letters in the alphabet. It wouldn’t surprise me. Once we are together, if you would be agreeable, I would love to hear this new one. I can feel there are things you aren’t telling me, but I also know there is a just reason for it. I will be patient.

If you believe Emily and I will get along then we more than likely will. Someone new to meet that you trust is something I always look forward to. I just hope you have warned her I am a curious person, questions will no doubt follow our friendship. The more you bring here to help with your plans where I cannot, that you trust to do as they are asked, possibly the better. 

I know you say we must look after ourselves and each other. Something I do understand, I have done so by myself until I met you. I know it displeases you that I have seen the crueler side of this world, but as you said the sooner one realizes it the better. You have restored some of the good in the world for me; with your words, your actions, with the people we call friends. It pains me to think we would ever be in a situation where you or I would have to decide between us and our small family, our friends. I agree no matter how close I become to Pearl, Annabell, or even Emily...my loyalty will always be with you. You are the one I will trust, you are the one I know I can count on. As you have said I am your home...you are mine. Wherever you are is where I belong and it is where my heart will be. Which means my home is what I will always choose.

I am not naive enough to not know at some point in our lives it will happen. I will also choose us. Always you. It would hurt, but it will always be you, us, our home. To survive that is how it has to be. 

The growth my love has caused you is not something I looked to do. I never wanted to change you in any way. I hope you do know that. But to know I am now included in what you protect, put first, and joined into your survival...I cannot lie, it pleases me. The fact you will be careful for me, for us… it is all I can ask. I know danger is there, I know there are enemies. That is not something we can avoid. Some closer to home than I would like. But your promise to come back to me, to be careful and only do what is needed. It shows that growth, my love. 

I mentioned enemies being closer to home than I would like. I did as you asked about the vampire causing the ‘animal attacks’. While Pearl and myself both believe it is possibly two vampires, there is one we found to be guilty. He’s one of yours, Katerina. Rebellious, disrespectful, vile man. He has no regard for human life, only seeing us as his food source and a form of entertainment. I hope you can hear the distaste for him in my words. His name is Frederick, I sadly had the displeasure of meeting him. The only thing that kept him from trying to kill me was Pearl’s reminder of who exactly I am to you. Though that seemed to irritate him more, he has a lover here and yet he seems to have misguided feelings toward you. Is there something I should know about you and him?

We do not know who the second vampire causing the attacks is. They are more careful than Frederick, yet just as vicious. She used a term I have yet to hear, she called the unknown vampire a ripper. We will continue to try and figure out who it is for you though. I won’t let them destroy what you have worked so hard for.

John Gilbert might be a neusions but his nonsense plans...they may be possible. How I am not sure of yet. But I feel that he knows about more than just vampires. Most of the men, or founding fathers as they are starting to call themselves, are ruthless. Dead set in their ways of thinking and anyone outside of that is just wrong. I am careful though my heart. He nor anyone else knows what I am up to. A perk of being invisible to this small town unless I do something to warrant their attention. I should only fear him or the others if they were to ever realize I know more than I should; meaning of your existence and my love for you or how I am friends with three other vampires. And from what I suspect...a witch. Not Emily though.

But I do promise as you have that I am careful while finding answers to things we need or in my everyday life. I haven’t touched a gun since you asked me to wait. Just as no matter how tempting it is to jump from the falls as it gets warmer, I don’t. Every risk that could take me from you I have eliminated in my life. At least for now. I know you would never stop me from learning or discourage me from doing so. I know you only want me to wait, not stop. Your want to protect me is something I love about you. My love is what makes me want to protect you Katerina. The fact no one else has ever done that? Angers me. You deserve the same amount of love and protection as I do. 

My innocence will stay within the way I want to learn, the way I sketch, and my love for those things. I already know you will keep that alive because of your promises and words. Your words to show me how to use different weapons and let me continue to work with guns. Your words of loving my passion for what I learn and listening to me speak of it. Your promises of showing me the world. I cannot wait to see the world by your side. I want to go to Bulgaria, I want to see where you were born and where you lived. I want to see the falls there that you write of.  I want the world with you Katerina. 

You think your innocence is completely gone...but you admitted it yourself, I give you butterflies and make you think of the girl you once were. Are those feelings and memories not signs of that innocence still within you even if it is just a small amount? Is not the way I make you laugh and smile not also signs of it? You are not completely lost to the cruelty of this world or the actions you have had to take to survive. Your humanity is on because of how you choose to live, my heart. It is just as showing as many other things. 

I call you Katerina not because it is simply your birth name but also because I see that woman in you. From the way to speak to me, look at me, protect me, to the way you truly do love me. Katerina is still within Katherine Pierce. If she wasn't, my love and presence wouldn’t help to sooth your anxieties. 

If she wasn’t you wouldn’t see me for me, make plans to see the world with me, to make me the only one you truly trust or put as a priority with your own survival. Even in the sillier things such as the want to jump the falls with me or find other places in the world to jump with me. There is innocence still there love, you just have to look for it. You say I truly see you, then believe my words my heart. We are both lucky to have found each other, but it was your courage to start that conversation that started our tale.

A tale that will one day mean I have to die---but only long enough for your blood to bring me back. It will not be at my own hand when you are not here. I did not mean to hurt you by being honest of where my thoughts went for that week and a half. Never is it my intention to hurt you as I said in my last letter. It hurts for me to tell you I could not live without you, but what would happen if you were forced to live without me? You said yourself it is not something you wish to think of...why? Because it would be a horrible existence now that you know what we could have had, yes? You save me, Katerina. I do not think you realize that. I realized it but not completely until your words were a slap to my face. You are enough. You are more than enough. You are my world Katerina. Your love, our plans, everything to do with this is enough to keep me from stepping over a ledge you cannot pull me back from. Ending my own life, leaving you...it is not something I could follow through with. 

You love me in ways you have never loved another, in the 400 years you have been alive. How could I leave you? How could I let my demons win and take me away from you? I cannot allow that to happen. I will not allow it to happen. I will use all the strength I have to hold on to that and you. I am sorry I hurt you my heart. I am so so sorry to cause you indescribable pain. Never again. I promise you that.

When I die it will be when you see fit. Not because of my foolishness, not because I was trying to protect you. But because it will be the start of our eternity in full. I do not fear death if I have you by my side, holding me and leading me through it. Maybe I should but I cannot seem to. I know you wish I wouldn’t ever have to, but if I don’t I will not be able to spend eternity with you as we have promised each other. It would only be a forever in the terms of my humanity. Which to me is not acceptable.

You say you love how I can be greedy, though in a different context, me wanting eternity with you is greedy. And if I cannot be greedy with you only drinking from me, then why not grant me another greedy want? I understand why you cannot only drink from me. Raising suspicion toward you is not something I wish to cause. Nor risk the chance of turning early. Yes I want to turn with you but only when you see it fit. I trust your judgement, which you know. I dislike the fact you can’t solely use me, but I do understand.

You may be angry with me for what I am about to tell you, but know I did this in hopes of making sure it was safe for you to drink from me. Know that all I wanted was to give you more knowledge of what would happen if Vervain was in my system. Pearl was not happy but she did understand. I only hope you do too, my heart. Your questions made me wonder as well, what would happen if you had only a drop of my blood was tainted with the horrid plant. How badly it would hurt you…

Annabelle and I took a vial of liquid Vervain that Pearl had in the shop. I did not drink it, only mixed a very small amount with my own blood in a glass. Annabelle took a sip, from the glass Katerina. The pain was mild, as if she had burned her tongue and throat with a soup too hot to have. Testing one drop of my blood would not harm you as much as cause discomfort for you. If it is the only way to make sure my blood is still pure for you, then we will do that. 

Once you are here, it will be easier for me to make sure there is no vervain in my food or drink. I can only do so much as a human to make sure I do not have it. I want you to be able to drink from me. I want you to have what you crave that is mine, always. Harper should have a very small gift for you. It was all I could send but hopefully it stops some of your torture of not being able to drink for me until I see you again. 

I expect you to hold me to my words, my heart. You will drink to your heart's content once we are together. The activities I envision for our first night back together include that. We do have a difficult time keeping our hands to ourselves, so I won’t deny either of us that pleasure. And we have discovered that it is most pleasurable for us both for you to drink in a moment of raw passion, why deny that pleasure? Why not combine once more what we love to have with each other? My body aches for you in so many ways. I just wish there was a way to keep you to myself for a few days as we did last summer; hours spent in bed, feeding our more primal desires. But the moments we have will have to be enough for now.

Another thing I have done in the last week that may anger you...I listened to your words, not to trust Madeline. To trust your instincts and that of Annabelle--though after the stunt with the blood and now this you may tell me to avoid listening to Annabelle. Please know she is just my friend, she cares for me and wants to make sure I am safe for you. 

You reminded me that not everyone who seems innocent is, that looks can be greatly deceiving. That different species have different smells, not just to werewolves but vampires. I asked Annabelle what Madeline smelled like--aside from one of rot, which you have told me means dark ruinous magic---she told me of Skullcap, Cats Claw, Rosemary, and elderberry. Of course, Annabelle didn’t know all their names but the way she described them well, after two summers with you I would know them anywhere. Madeline is a witch, she almost didn’t want to admit it either for fear of me screaming witch through town or for some deeper reason. But she did. Her eyes held something else though. Aside from reluctance and her surprise that I knew of such things. There was something she was hiding from me. I don’t know what and I did not question it. Pearl knows and now so do you.

She continues to want to be near me, but I am never alone with her. Not after you warned me. Annabelle is always with me or we are at Pearl’s shop. As I stated above in this letter, your judgement is all I need to trust, you are the only one I will trust my heart. Though I think I need to keep an eye on her. Why suddenly is there a witch in town? Yes, she arrived last summer with two friends--one that chased Stefan and made him fall in love. Was she a witch too? Why did Madeline remain and the others go? So many unanswered questions.

There is no need to be jealous, Katerina. Not with Annabelle or Madeline. My attention on Annabelle is just a distraction from missing you and gaining a true friend. Madeline is someone I now know I need to watch for your sake and what she might be planning on her own. All my true attention and affection is saved for only you. Always for you. Something you will be reminded of the moment I see you, the moment you are here in town and here to stay until we can rid ourselves of this place once and for all. My eyes will never stray from you, my heart always will long to be near yours, my hands only will move to caress you or keep you close. Never will another take that from you. Remember that my love.

Besides, I know what would happen if I ever returned another's attention or desire for affection--I am yours. They would die for daring to think of taking me from you. I may not be able to tell Stefan of that fact, but I can warn Madeline off that I am taken if her attentions and intentions change from friendship toward something else. But the fact of Stefan is, I do believe he is jealous. The woman he met last summer, she stood him up at their planned randevu point. He is a handsome man but he does not chase women, nor generally pursue them. Stefan will show interest but wants to be chased. I think the woman truly broke his heart as I said last time. It’s taught him to be cautious which in the end has stopped women in town from trying to build anything with him. 

Or it could be the Salvatore reputations who have stopped any woman from looking his way. Damon has smeared our name so many times with his womanizing ways and drinking. The town is what calls him the Scumlike Salvatore, along with many other names. Stefan is the saint of the family in our fathers eyes--though if he knew of Stefan’s activities last summer that might change. The words I used to describe myself, I was not using them as my own words. They are the towns my love You will see when you get here. I am the Sick Salvatore to them. Or I used to be. Now it is the rare whisper that I hear.

You asked me if it was Damon’s charm and cockiness that was appealing--it pains me to admit this, but yes, it is. Just as you find me charming and my cockiness pleasing, so do women for Damon. It really pains me to be this honest, but in that respect we are similar. We get it from our mother, or so I am told. I was eight when my mother died so I do not remember her as well as my brothers and the things I do remember, well I know they would make you feel as my father does. But Stefan claims we are like her. That our attitudes match hers when it comes to our wit and sarcasm or cockiness. So there is a chance you will find him appealing, oh how the bile is rising in my throat at that thought.

Maybe how we are similar to mother, with our own flaws, is why Father despises us so much. I would not put it past him. And yes, my heart...he whipped me, hidden within the cellar. I do not know how long we were down there, only that Pearl wanted to kill him when she saw the result of it. As I told you last time, it was enough to scar my back for the rest of my human life. I told her it was only your right to kill him, that I had told you before that I would let you--that I wanted it to be you. To watch you do so, torture him and make him beg? I will cherish that more than you ever know. If it makes us ill so be it. I do not care anymore. Not when it comes to thoughts of him.

He was drunk when he found us coming back from the falls. It was foolish of me to have gone in the first place truly. He’d been drinking all day. I do not have good experiences with people who drink. But with you, as with parties, I know I can come to accept and learn to be comfortable with those types of situations. A more playful form of you? Now that would be interesting to see. With you I would be comfortable. We have all eternity to find out. I wonder what alcohol would truly do to me? If it is something that helps keep the thirst away, I will have to drink. 

My thirst when I change is something I will quickly have to learn to control with my emotions. While I know you will help me, along with those we consider family, I need to find ways to do so on my own as well. If drinking is one of them so be it. I will not be so unhinged after changing that I risk altering Niklaus. I refuse. But we have time to work on that. To find ways. 

On the subject of a locket, when it comes I will put it on once there is vervain in it. I’ll wear it for you. It can be a way to show I belong to you as well. Though I do enjoy the idea of the lock and key for us both. One day, maybe a ring--either my daylight ring or one I find for you. We have that eternity though so why think of that now? To be marked by you and have you return that wish to be by me is enough for now. 

Loopholes are such a funny thing aren’t they? Always there no matter what it is, always a way around something. I have no doubt if someone tried to compel me you would figure it out or I would find a way to tell you. You may be lethal now, unstoppable in so many ways...but with me beside you? I will not be your weakness...I promise to only make you stronger, to help push you to legendary.

Enjoy the gift Harper has for you my heart. I will send each letter.

With all my love, Lee

[sylvanfreckles]

Impaled (FebuWhump 04)

I had an extremely crappy day at work today...like coming home crying level crappy. So, as a defense mechanism, this came out. Granted, it was always going to be a slightly humorous take on this scenario, but this went a little...extreme.

You can also read this on AO3

Fandom: Supernatural Summary: Who would have thought, in the end, it would be vampire clowns in a busted-up barn in the middle of nowhere?

Not the Winchesters, that's for certain.

And certainly not Castiel, who did not get resurrected again just to die at the hands of a monster with a fourteen-year grudge.

* * *

After everything..after Chuck and Free Will and rewriting their own lives...it all came down to this.

A musty old barn in the ass-crack of nowhere, facing down a gang of vampires of all things.

“So, what, now's when we find out Gordon isn't actually dead?” Dean muttered, standing back-to-back with Sam. “Or, ah, what's-her-name...the hippie one who only ate cows. Think she's here?”

“We watched Lenore die,” Sam reminded him. “And I killed Gordon. I don't think this is either of them.”

“Yeah, unless Chuck brought them back,” Dean shot back. “Cas?”

Castiel, who had been silently and efficiently dispatching vampires turned back at Dean's question. “I find it unlikely Chuck would have considered either of them important enough to bring back from Purgatory.” Another vampire roared up behind him, and without even looking Cas stabbed him through the throat with his angel blade.

Dean had to admit, the flutter of Cas's new calf-length trench coat was pretty impressive as the angel spun around to yank his blade from one vampire and plunge it into another. Jack had apparently hooked his adoptive father up with some new duds on his return from the Empty, so Cas wasn't exactly rocking the whole “holy tax accountant” look anymore.

On the one hand, the long black trench coat was absolutely badass. The way it spun around Cas as he moved in battle reminded Dean of the shadows of wings cast on the barn ceiling all those years ago, and it had a much more stylish cut that emphasized the muscle on the angel's powerful frame.

On the other...the rainbow-colored sweater vest was a little much. But the combination was something that was just so essentially Jack they really couldn't complain.

“Dean!”

Pulled out of his daydreams by his brother's warning scream, Dean managed to deflect an incoming vampire and roll out of the way, narrowly avoiding the dangerous-looking nail that was poking up out of one of the support beams. Damn, they really needed to stop confronting vampires in fallen-down old barns.

Cas hauled him to his feet and manhandled him to one side, a blast of holy power from his other hand obliterating yet another vampire clown. “How many more are there?” the angel shouted over the sounds of battle.

“They just keep coming,” Sam panted. They were cornered now—Cas's angel blade was still embedded in a vampire a few feet away, Dean's machete had gotten notched when it had gotten stuck on a particularly dense vampire spine, and Sam was favoring his right arm as though chopping off so many heads in such a short amount of time was giving some kind of hunter's carpal tunnel. “Are we sure...I mean, is Chuck really de-powered?”

“You think he planned for one of us to die in some shitty barn in the middle of nowhere?” Dean scoffed. “Dude. The man's a hack, but he's not that bad.”

“Enough!” A fourth voice—because, really, the vampire clowns had done nothing but snarl since the Winchesters had busted down the door—cut through the air as another figure strode into the center of the barn.

It was, predictably, another vampire. This one was obviously the boss, judging by the way she was dressed—halter top and jeans instead of baggy clothes and a clown mask. Seriously, why clowns? Was someone trying to make this place Sam's worst nightmare?

“Well, well. If it isn't the Winchesters.” The woman flipped a lock of long, dark hair back over her shoulder. “I'm sure you're surprised to see me.”

Dean stared at her for a moment then glanced over at his brother. Sam shrugged. “Right,” Dean said after a few seconds. “You're...the Ringmaster!”

Sam let out a groan and stumbled back to lean against the wall of the barn. Dean couldn't see much of Cas's face but the angel's body was radiating out disappointment. “Come on,” Dean protested. “Clowns? The circus?”

“Enough!” the woman snapped again. “You killed my entire clan fourteen years ago. I've waited a long time for this day, when my new clan would find the Winchesters and we would put an end to them!”

Dean let his gaze travel up and down the woman's body again. She was still familiar, but that wasn't really enough to jog his memory. “Sweetheart, you're gonna have to be way more specific than that. Fourteen years is a long time.”

Cas shot him a dirty look—though whether it was over the sweetheart comment or Dean's snarky tone of voice he couldn't tell.

The woman hissed in anger. “Jenny? I had been chosen to join Luther's clan? You kidnapped his mate, Kate? Killed all of them to get your father and your precious Colt back?”

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth. Oh, right, he remembered her now...not that she needed to know that. “Sorry. Doesn't ring a bell.”

Jenny gave a shriek and charged toward him. Cas intercepted, easily turning her momentum against her. Sam charged in, the machete in his left hand now, easily cutting through the seemingly endless swarm of vampires.

With a rueful glance at his ruined machete, Dean took up a position to cover Cas's flank. Maybe he couldn't charge back into battle like Sam, but he could at least keep the small fry off the angel's back.

“This reminds me of the place we first met, Cas,” Dean called over his shoulder.

Cas grunted. “Hell was nothing like this, Dean. This barn has no resemblance to Alistair's pit.”

“What?” Dean shook his head. Right, sometimes he forgot about the whole raised-you-from-perdition thing. Maybe he needed to get that handprint tattooed back on or something...if he could face Sammy's teasing. “No, I meant the barn, man. Where I tried to shoot you.”

With a twist of his hips Cas flipped Jenny onto her back and wrapped one hand around her throat. “You also stabbed me,” he retorted. He was on limited power while he was on earth, but he had enough juice to burn Jenny out of existence.

“Still. Memories.”

There was a ragged cry from one of the vampire clowns—one of the few Sam hadn't managed to decapitate in the last five minutes (really, their heads just popped right off if you got the angle right...his high school history teacher had been so wrong). The vampire charged at Cas and the angel wasn't quite able to defend himself before he was driven back against one of the barn's support posts. Dean shouted a curse at the vampire and took a swing at his head.

The machete stuck. Dean swore and tugged it free, then swung again. The vampire went down, but it took a few more blows before he finally managed to separate the head from the body. “Dammit,” he swore, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “Sammy?”

“Forty-seven,” Sam panted. He was doubled over, hands on his knees. “That was forty-seven vampire clowns. What the hell is happening?”

“Maybe Chuck's still in charge,” Dean theorized. “Cas?”

The angel grunted. Dean twisted around to see Cas staring down at his own chest, then the angel slowly peeled back one lapel of his trench coat. “Oh. I've been impaled.”

It was the rusty bar Dean had narrowly avoided earlier. It was longer than he'd thought, and the tip was poking out of Cas's chest right below his heart. “Cas?”

“I'm all right,” Cas reassured him, though the spray of blood he coughed up wasn't very reassuring.

“Oh god,” Sam fisted both hands in his hair. “Wh-what do we do? Should we call Jack? Do you need an ambulance? Or, wait, a spell? Maybe, maybe there's something in the car...”

“Sam, this is nothing,” Cas protested. He gripped the bar with one hand, frowning a little when he wasn't able to push himself free. “Though I could use some assistance.”

“No-no-no-no!” Sam waved his hands frantically. He'd pulled a bandanna out of...somewhere...and was trying to put pressure on the wound around the rusty bar. “We'll just...we can control the bleeding, and-and Dean can call an ambulance, and they can take care of you at the hospital.”

“Sam...”

“I didn't even get to say good-bye last time,” Sam whispered.

Ouch. Damn. Dean felt that one, right in his gut. That spurred him to action. “Hey, it's okay,” he said, quietly. He placed a hand on one of Sam's arms and leaned in closer to study the wound. “You said it's not bad? 'Cause I'm pretty sure some of that's supposed to be on the inside.”

Cas coughed and the wound gurgled as he sucked in a breath. “It would be a fatal wound if I were human,” he admitted. “But it cannot kill me. It is merely...uncomfortable.”

“There, see?” Dean knocked his shoulder against Sam's. He was worried, too...he would never get used to seeing Cas injured, no matter how long they were together. Especially not since the angel always tended to get the more...dramatic injuries. Like now, Sam and Dean were coming out of the fight with barely a scratch between them, while Cas had been impaled on a piece of rusty metal.

The absurdity of the situation finally struck Dean. The piles of dead vampire clowns. The woman from their past, who had apparently been planning revenge for fourteen years even though they hadn't even remembered her name.

And, most of all, their badass angel-of-the-lord (even if the lord in question at the moment was their adopted kid) in his rainbow sweater vest and badass trench coat staring down at the metal protruding from his chest like it was personally offending him.

Oh. I've been impaled.

He couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.

Sam turned, scandalized. Cas looked on with resigned amusement.

“He-he just,” Dean wheezed. “Like that snowman...just...”

Cas gave a long-suffering sigh and gripped the piece of metal in one hand. With a mighty twist it broke away from the barn's support beam, and with another wrench Cas had pulled it free from his body and dropped it to the floor. His legs buckled beneath him, but Sam caught him and eased him down, that ever-present bandanna pressed to the wound in Cas's chest.

“Oh man...it's gonna be okay, Cas. We'll...we'll figure this out.”

“Dude,” Dean staggered over to kneel next to them, tears of laughter running down his face. “He's fine, just...just let it go.”

“Stop quoting Frozen and put your hand here!” Sam snapped, yanking Dean closer. “We need to stop the bleeding!”

Cas just stared at them patiently while Sam rocked up to his knees to apply more pressure to his wound. Dean tried to help, he really did, but the entire situation was just spiraling too far out of control. If Chuck really was still writing their lives he'd obviously gone insane.

Sam peeled the bandanna back to check Cas's wound and there was...nothing. Just the smooth, colorful knit of his rainbow-colored sweater vest. Even the blood stains were gone, as though Cas had never been injured.

With a relieved sigh, Sam sank back onto his heels. Cas pushed himself up on his elbows, idly brushing at the straw that was sticking to his trench coat. Dean picked up the rusty piece of iron that had impaled Cas and flung it across the barn.

“Not today, Chuck!” he hollered after it. “No one's dying in some shitty barn in the middle of nowhere, you hear me?”

There was a companionable silence for a moment, then Sam suddenly shot to his feet and looked around. “We forgot about the kids!”

* * *

Jack sees his father both as a badass unstoppable force, and as the caring dad who always has time for him. Thus, when designing his wardrobe for his current resurrection, he went with the odd combination of cuddly rainbow vest and Neo-style trench coat. Oddly enough, it suits Cas more than anything else he's ever worn.

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Stone Hearts | Geralt x Reader | Parts I - III

Summary: A/U(ish). When fate landed you at Kaer Morhen, you were mostly just happy to have meals to eat and a place to sleep. But, as it turns out, fate may have led you to much, much more. (Basically, you and Geralt are students at Kaer Morhen together. These stories chronicle your lives together.)  

Word Count: 7k+

Warnings: Violence, smut, the usual.

A/N: I originally planned on posting this as a series of short stories all at once, but as it is such a long story, I decided I’d split it up into groups of stories instead. So, this one is Part I, II, and III. Let me know what you think – and thank you, as always, for taking time to read my work 😊.

Thank you so much to @jesseswartzwelder​ for the request/amazing idea!

If you enjoy my work, consider reblogging this post following me for more Witcher fics here and on my personal/original writing blog here. You can also check out my masterlist! 

Part I

The sun is hot, bearing down on the crowded courtyard and making you sweat through your leathers even more than you usually do. Still, you refuse to give any inkling of the fact that your blood is absolutely boiling, like your body is burning itself away. You know that it is more than the hot sun—you’ve started taking a new elixir, and ever since, you’ve been aching with fever. One moment, you are burning out of your skin, the next, you are shivering and sweating at the same time.

Your feet move of their own accord, purely out of instinct, as you dodge and parry, pirouette and deflect. You try as hard as you possibly can to breathe deeply and slowly, so as not to exert yourself even more. And yet, the sharp sound of dulled iron striking dulled iron reverberates you your head, loud enough to make you want to flinch.

But flinching is not an option. Not with Geralt, anyways. You don’t like losing, especially to your de facto partner. As usual, the two of you are the last pair left sparring, the others standing around drinking deeply from waterskins or laying on unclaimed ground nursing whatever wounds they incurred over the course of the day. You wish you were one of them, but only a little. If you are honest, you love being the center of attention; you love being one of Kaer Morhen’s Golden Children. You thrive one it.

“Getting tired, Witcher?” you quip, avoiding a slash of his blade with a rolling dodge, landing on your feet in a flash and only just missing him with your next attack.

“Not a chance, Witcher Girl,” he responds with a parry leading to an attack of his own. You manage to block him with the flat of your blade, but you can tell that you are off – not enough for an ordinary eye to see, but Geralt does not have the eyes of an ordinary man.

He’s got you backed up nearly to the wall, leaving you less room than you’d like, and distracting you enough with his smile, a dangerous flash of white, that you nearly lose your footing. But after another turn and other quick flurry of attacks and counterattacks, you do lose your footing – but it has nothing to do with Geralt’s smile and everything to do with a sudden blinding pain that seems to start in your head and travel down your body at lighting speed. You crumple to the ground.

Geralt drops his sword before you even hit the dirt, rushing to you side and placing a calloused hand gently on your shoulder, speaking urgently, “Y/N,” he says as he gently pushes against your shoulder to turn you over, “Are you alright? What happened?” What has him so worried is not that you fell – the two of you never went easy on one another, and each took your share of tumbles. No, he is worried because you had been steady on two feet one moment and wincing, dropping your sword, and thudding to the ground after it the next.

You have, of course, told him nothing about the extra elixir. You’d tried so many at this point that you’d grown into a sense of security, like something that couldn’t possibly harm you. After all, the really deadly shit was saved for the Trial of the Grasses – but even then, the strong ones usually made it, and you are one of the strong ones. But, no matter how many times you tell him not to worry – he always, always does. The same way that you worry about him every time you learn they’re giving him new mysterious concoctions to try.

He is you closest friend, and he has been since the moment you walked onto the grounds of Kaer Morhen and he punched Eskel in the face for lobbing an ill-timed joke at the very timid new arrival and making you cry.

Vizimir was not happy with any of you, and all three of you managed to earn yourselves extra cleaning duties that week. Geralt for punching Eskel, Eskel for making ‘unnecessary remarks,’ and you for crying. Coincidentally, that week was also the week that the three of you began a friendship that spanned even to this day.

You blink up at him, unable to speak, though you want to. Something is wrong, you want to say, Get Vizimir. But, try as you might, you aren’t able to make your mouth form the words. Instead, you just stare up at him with wide eyes. His brown curls are stuck to his brow with sweat, and his eyes are searching your eyes for an answer you can’t give him. You are also vaguely aware of other students abandoning their carefully staked out plots of grass to come and see what the fuss is about.

The only other girl, Estra of Ard Caraigh, chews her lip nervously as she looks on, though you can’t see her. The two of you aren’t particularly close, mostly because she is two years older, so you are surprised when you hear her voice from the growing crowd of onlookers, “They gave you that elixir, didn’t they? The one that’s to make sure you can train every day of the month?”

In your bleary half-consciousness, you see a flash of long auburn hair as she rushes to your side, pressing a hand to your forehead. Her face blanches and she turns back to shout to no one in particular, “Get Vizimir, NOW.”

You try once more to make some sort of sound, but all that comes out is a choked sob. You had not cried since your first day here, and the fact that tears were streaming down your face seemingly of their own accord was mortifying. The only thing that kept your from screaming in pain was Geralt as he took your hand in his own and held on tightly, leaning down to whisper that it was all going to be ok in a voice surprisingly calm given the red-hot fire burning in his eyes and his tightly clenched jaw.

Part II

Your fingers tap the glass impatiently as you peer out the window, checking for signs of life on the road that winds from the gate of the Keep out into the forests surrounding Kaer Morhen, twisting its way through the wilderness surrounding the Snow Pine Mountains. If you’ve calculated correctly, Geralt should be returning today. He left nearly two weeks before with one of the Witchers to help with a contract on a Drowner infestation plaguing a nearby town on the banks of some manmade lake.

Leave it to Kaedwen. Perhaps the people of Kaedwen had grown too comfortable. With Witchers nearby, there wasn’t much to fear from monsters, was there?

This particular excursion was his reward for being the first to return from the Trial of the Medallion – the chance to muck around in the swamps for a few days, cutting down drowners at thirty crowns a head.

Thirty crowns a head.

You still remember a time when thirty crowns seemed an unobtainable amount of money; money that could have lasted your family near a month if it had to. To think that once this was all over, you would be able to fulfill contracts earning multiples of that for each monster slain. Being considered at once a poor victim of a stolen childhood and a mutant freak who had no place existing was a small price to pay for such a steady income.

“Show me a lake, and I’ll show you the drowners,” as Vizimir would say.

Pulling yourself back from the objectively horrifying daydreams of hacking drowners to shreds in return for a sack full of coin, you resume your vigilance.

Accounting for the four days ride from Kaer Morhen, maybe five if any monsters appeared on The Path, and then three days at most to deal with the drowners, and then another four to five days ride back accounting for the supplies they’d be carrying back from the village, he should be arriving back today. Unless of course… No. You cannot allow yourself to even consider the possibility that anything had gone wrong.

You tell yourself you that the nervous energy that has you buzzing is simply born of boredom, or maybe out of frustration that you’d have to spar with Eskel today. After nearly two weeks pouring over books, Vizimir had finally determined that it was time to get back to swordsmanship and, most importantly, sparring. It was about the only thing that broke the general dullness of school.

And without Geralt, you tell yourself, sparring will be just as dull as the bloody books. You determine that this is at least a half-truth. Geralt was the only sparring partner quite at your level. So, it went without saying that sparring with anyone else was dull, mostly a waste of time. In your opinion, fighting an easy fight is not fun. And that’s not even your ego talking; it is purely factual.

And a bit of ego.

And then there is the separate issue; the fact that you hadn’t exactly realized – or had at least pretended not to realize – just how much time you spent with Geralt until he was gone. You’d been happy for him when he won the Trial of the Medallion, of course, but you hadn’t been quite as thrilled when you learned what the prize was. Sure – it was a chance for him to escape form the stone fortress for two weeks, a chance to get out and see the world. But drowners, no matter how easy to kill, could always be dangerous. Or maybe you were just upset that the second place winner – that just so happened to be you – didn’t get to go along as well. You’d finished only second behind him; it seemed unfair.  

Despite its unfairness, it was reality. So, instead of out hunting monsters, you were stuck here while time dragged on at an excruciating crawl.

You’ve got other students with whom to pass the time, but to be honest, exploring the grounds of Kaer Morhen Of course, you still have your other fellow students to pass the time with – which you do – but it’s not the same. There is a bond between the two of you that far surpasses your bond with anyone else. No matter how adamantly you try to ignore it, there’s just no way around it.

You sigh in frustration and turn away from the window; you have too many things to do, regardless of how absolutely tedious everything is. Studying with Vizimir, of course. And you’ve got to spar today. At least that is somewhat interesting – even if none of the other students can quite match you; with the exception of Geralt. It is a convenient way for you to explain away any feelings. Perhaps sparring with people who cannot keep up is just boring. As much as you enjoy winning, there’s no excitement winning against people you could probably best in your sleep.

You pull on your last bits of armor – a belt with a small sheath for your dagger, and of course your leather jerkin. Your dulled iron and silver are slung over your back. You won’t receive your silver – a real silver sword – until you pass the trial of the grasses. It would, of course, be a waste to supply every one of Kaer Morhen’s students with new silver swords, considering the unfortunate reality that a majority would never need one.

Gods, you hope you need one.

You move silently through the ancient hallways, bracing yourself for the certain boredom that will greet you in the keep’s library. It is a large room full of old books, most of which are yellowed with age and feel as if they might fall apart beneath your fingertips. Vizimir explains that new books are not necessary, because monsters never change.

“Wonderful of you to finally join us, Little Vampire,” Vizimir says as you push open the wooden door to see several students sitting at the old tables all in various states of half-sleep. You just shrug in response and make your way to an empty chair. You earned the nickname Little Vampire after, during the week you spent delirious with fever, you apparently bit Vizimir’s hand hard enough to leave a scar when he tried to force a potion down your throat.

“Probably off waiting for Geralt,” you hear Stefan say under his breath to Eskel, who is sitting in the chair next to him. You pretend not to hear him; you’ve given up on trying to explain your relationship with Geralt to your peers. And anyway, it would be impossible to explain even if you tried – you cannot even explain it to yourself.

But then, you hear Eskel mutter, even quieter – “He probably won’t be back until tomorrow. Off spending that hard-earned coin the right way.” You know that it shouldn’t bother you; Geralt can do whatever he’d like. And what you’d learned from hearing Eskel and the others when they spoke about their time outside of Kaer Morhen, there was a very specific way they tended to celebrate. It wasn’t your place to be upset about it. And, yet, here you were.

Whatever, you tell yourself. He’s only following the Code. That fucking Code.

* * *

“Fucking hell,” Eskel spits, pushing himself up from the ground, heavily favoring his left ankle. You smirk, sheathing the blunted blade. You don’t need to say anything – knocking him out of the fight as quickly as you had spoke volumes.

“And all this time, we thought Geralt was just letting her win, eh, Eskel?”

You turn and narrow your eyes at Stefan, their dark amber burning like coals as you bore into him. You aren’t daft – you are fully aware of this particular rumor, as ridiculous of a rumor as it is.

“Would have been quite the charade to have been pulling off all these years.”

You have a hard time suppressing your smile at the familiar baritone, but you turn around with witcherlike reflexes regardless. And Code be damned, for all the elixirs they’d given you, emotion flooded you. You refuse to call it love; to be a Witcher and admit to such a feeling would be laughable. But you will call it joy – joy at seeing your absolute closest friend in the world after all this time.

A whole two weeks.

Not wanting to make yourself, and Geralt by extension, the butt of jokes for the next month, you stop yourself from barreling toward him and throwing your arms around his neck like you want to, you settle for smiling instead.

“Finally,” you drawl, “A real challenge.”

Your friend smirks, arms crossing over his chest.

“I’ve just returned, and the first thing you want to do is cross swords?” he fakes offense.

“Of course,” you retort, “This is Kaer Morhen, after all.”

“Damn,” Geralt responds, “Thought it was Ban Aard.”

Several others who had abandoned their activities to listen laughed at that one – you included. Fucking mages and their fancy schools, preaching about the importance of magic Witchers’ reliance on it. Ban Aard and Aretuza were the butt of a good number of jokes at Kaer Morhen, like Kaer Morhen certainly was to them.

“Enough standing around and talking,” you goad, “Grab your sword, Witcher.”

You ignore the hushed conversations around you as Geralt replaces the silver sword slung over his back with a dull iron one.  The usual nonsense – something about the two of you thriving on attention and showing off and something else about the two of you needing to “just fuck already.”

He seems to be ignoring the group just as you are, reading himself as you do the same.

“Alright, Witcher,” you smile dangerously, “Let’s see if those Drowners sharpened your skills."

Part III

“It just doesn’t feel real,” you muse, turning over your shoulder to glance at Geralt who sits with his back flush against yours, “Only two days until the Trials.”

“Mhm,” he answers from deep in his chest. While you have chosen to cover up your panic and fear with excitement and fierce pride, Geralt has turned to philosophizing – existentialism and cynicism being his philosophies of choice.

“Geralt…” you mutter, wishing that you could get more than a syllable or two out of him. “It’s going to be ok.”

You are trying to convince yourself just as much as you are trying to convince him. And, given your tendency to turn everything into a game of logic – very useful in calculating opponents next moves – chances are high that you are correct.

“We’ve both responded well to all of the elixirs they’ve given us, hardly any negative reactions at all,” you expound, but Geralt scoffs, making your mouth snap shut.

“Yes, except that one time two years back when you almost died.” His voice is laced with worry, and though you are facing opposite directions, you know exactly what his expression by his tone alone. His eyebrows are knitted together, and his amber eyes are narrowed such that from a distance, someone might not notice that he was undergoing mutations at all. His lips are pressed into a tight line, and his curls fall into his face. That, combined with his bulky form, would make anyone stay away. Anyone except for you.

“That was one time,” you press, “One elixir out of hundreds. It’s a better record than most people.” Kaer Morhen was your home and you truly wanted to become a Witcher. If you’d been left alone in Crookback Bog, you would have died years ago. And if you’d grown up in some backwater village or in the poor district of a city, plague or pox could’ve taken you. For you, the potions and elixirs and the mutations they induced were just the inevitable tradeoffs to life here. If you couldn’t survive the trials, you couldn’t be a Witcher, and if you couldn’t become a Witcher, you’d be on your own with no skills to speak of, no way to make a living. At least Kaer Morhen gave you something akin to a family – it had given you Geralt.

“I don’t care to remember any details of that week,” he mutters, looking at the ground and shaking his head, “But I… I can’t stop thinking about it. About you laying there burning with fever, calling out in your sleep.”

You are stunned. Geralt, while not as closed off as the other students and Witchers liked to say, was not apt to speak with such emotion. You can’t remember the last time you heard him stumble over his words like that – or if you ever had, for that matter. You open your mouth to speak, about how that was quite a regular occurrence for Kaer Morhen’s students as they underwent mutations, but he is already speaking again before you can get a word out.

“You kept saying that you were on fire, your bones were on fire,” you pick at the grass as he continues, “And the elixirs to help the pain only made it worse.”

Truth be told, you don’t have much memory of that week of your life. You were delirious with fever, and only remember brief moments that you could not definitively place in the “real” category or mark them off as hallucinations. But, as he speaks, some memories do pop into your mind. One in particular where it took three grown men to hold you down and force one of the elixir’s down your throat. Vizimir started calling you Little Vampire after that, thanks to the fact that your perfectly average canines managed to dig so deep into his hand that he still had a scar. Now, you supposed, you understood why Geralt didn’t like that one.

“I just… I can’t…” as Geralt stumbles over his words, you cannot tell if you are hearing his heart hammering or yours. You follow your immediate urge and turn around to sit next to him, both of you now looking out towards the grounds of Kaer Morhen through the trees. You’ve had this secret meeting place for years – a place where the two of you would go to talk or just to sit. A peaceful place, away from the constant chaos behind the castle walls.

“Geralt,” you say, placing a hand on his shoulder and shifting so that he is facing you, “You’re the strongest of all of us. Even Vizimir said…well, you remember!” You are referring to a conversation you overheard one evening when you were prowling around places you shouldn’t be. He was talking to one of the other instructors, the two of them comparing notes.

“Geralt, Y/N, and Eskel will be this year’s Three, mark my words.”

“There’s no need to be scared,” you add after a moment, voice quiet. You hadn’t known he was so scared to undergo the mutations. He was always the best in your training exercises, always the strongest, the fastest, the one getting all the special elixirs. You hadn’t even thought that he might still be worried.

Quite suddenly, he turns, placing his hand over the one of yours that is resting in your lap, “I’m not worried for myself. I just… I can’t… It makes me so angry to think of them putting you through that again.”

You look down, staring at his hand on top of yours, which is suddenly the only thing that you can focus on. Relationships at Kaer Morhen aren’t forbidden, but they aren’t common. There had been a handful of moments like these – none of them that went farther than stolen glances and they always left you feeling somehow empty, aching for what you couldn’t have.

Silence stretches between you. The only sound either of you make are the thundering of our hearts and carefully controlled breathing. Though, you notice, each time Geralt breathes in, there is a slight unsteadiness to it, a shakiness, as if he is trying as hard as you are to keep your breathing in check.

Finally, you draw a breath that would be noticeably shaky, even for a person who hadn’t undergone all of the mutations that the two of you had. You tear your eyes from your hand to look up at him and say, “I’m an adult, Geralt. I’m going through the trials willingly.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, just clenches his jaw and lets out a huff, so you continue, “We’ve always known about the Trials, I agreed to it when I came here, and I’ve continued to agree to it every time that I’ve taken any of their elixirs. I’ve...We’ve been training for this for our whole lives. Without Vizimir I would have died without getting a chance to experience real life.”

“I know the speech,” Geralt shoots back almost immediately, pulling his hand away and leaving you feeling hurt.

“Geralt.” You are struggling to keep your voice steady. You can’t decide if you feel like screaming or crying, so you keep to the Code and shove both of those urges down as deep as is possible given the situation. “It’s not my fault we have to undergo the mutations, so don’t fucking snap at me.”

“Fuck,” Geralt says, shaking his head and burying it in his hands, “Y/N, I’m sorry. I know.”

He is silent for another moment before he finally lowers his hands and looks up at you. You realize in that moment how close you are, your faces only inches apart. You can see the gold flecks in his amber eyes and the stubble on his cheeks and have to fight to ignore the urge to reach out and see how his skin feels beneath your hands, and what his eyes would look like if you did.

But then, he reaches out with one hand, hesitantly and ever so gently, to cup your face. You shiver as the pad of his thumb brushes just beneath your lower lip and the very corner of your mouth. Time feels suspended, as if the two of you are floating on some separate plane where the day of the Trials will never come and the two of you can just stay right here, just as you are, forever.

“I hate the idea of you undergoing the Trial because I can’t stomach the thought of losing you, Y/N.” The words are like a punch to the stomach that is somehow pleasant, knocking all the breath out of your lungs.

He leans even closer, until your foreheads are touching. “I know the Code, and I know I’m not supposed to, but I love you.”

You breathe in, memorizing the smell of him. You’ve only ever been this close during sparring exercises. You decide you like this a lot better.

“When I had the fever… The one thing that kept me, you know, here was you, you know,” you breathe. You’ve never told him because you know that no matter how much he had pretended to hate it as of late, he sticks to the Code. The Code, which doesn’t look highly on Witchers being in relationships – especially with one another. “And that’s why—and you’re the reason I know that I’ll survive the Trial.” Your eyes have drifted down, unable to meet his as you confess this – the secret you have been hiding from him for so long.

He is silent for a moment, frozen there with his deliciously warm hand on your face before finally letting his and slip lower, resting under your chin and gently tilting your head up so that he can meet your eyes. “Fuck the Code,” he says, eyes flashing before pressing his lips to yours.

It is your first kiss, and it is pure bliss. Your lips fit together like pieces of a puzzle and the sensation has you drunk with pleasure before he even deepens the kiss. And, when he does, you are ready. You part your lips for him, and he greedily explores your mouth. You keep thinking that it can’t get any better, but yet it does. You moan involuntarily as his hand slips from your chin, ghosting along the curve of your neck and coming to rest on your shoulder, calloused thumb sweeping across your collar bone.

His touch is electric, leaving your skin feeling hot and charged, and longing for more. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling yourself flush against him. He responds with an appreciative grunt, moving his hands to explore your body, starting by sweeping down your sides, just barely grazing the sides of your breasts in the process.

With his hands now firmly wrapped around your sides, he breaks the kiss, leaving you in a huff of frustration and disappointment – you hadn’t had nearly enough of him. But before you can get too out of sorts, his lips touch your neck and you moan, tipping your head back to grant him complete access. You don’t even have time to worry about the fact that you have no idea what you’re doing – that you have never done this before – because Geralt is so thorough, so in control of the situation. It’s like he knows all the right places to touch, and exactly what to do with his mouth to have you breathing heavily, small sounds of pleasure slipping through your lips.

Tentatively, you begin exploring his body with your hands. You love the way that his muscled form feels beneath your fingers, and it makes you want to explore every inch. As your hands move down his chest, you find yourself tugging at his shirt. You don’t know if it is an involuntary reaction to his teeth grazing your neck as his lips continue down to your collarbone or whether it is simply a feeble attempt to pull the fabric away because you would very much like to know what his sculpted abdomen feels like beneath your fingers without the offending material in the way.

Geralt’s hands, on the other hand, have gripped your white linen shirt, identical to his own, and already began pulling it over your head. You raise your arms to make it easier for him, and the moment it is off, you greedily reach for his own tugging the material up and over his head. For a moment, you just stare at him, drinking in the sight of him shirtless before you. It wasn’t as if you had never seen him this way – but you had always done your best not to look too long, afraid that he would notice as question why.

However, he interrupts your moment of slightly embarrassing admiration when he wraps his arms around you, hands grazing your hyper-sensitive skin. You sigh, content to let him touch every inch of you. Encouraged by this, his hands wander up to unlace your bra and you bite your lip in anticipation. You cannot wait to feel his hands on them, arching your back, willing him to make faster work of it.

He grins as he slips the material off your shoulders, grin turning into more of a smirk as he sees you staring back at him with wide, expectant eyes. He slides one hand up your back, easing you down so you are laying beneath him, eyes drinking in the sight of you naked form and making your feel suddenly exposed. But, given the way his pupils dilate, he likes what he sees as much as you do.

He leans over you, lowering himself so that he can bring his lips to yours once more. You greedily bite his lower lip, hands back to their game of exploring as much of his body as you can reach. And then all of a sudden, you feel his stubbled cheek graze against yours as he leans to growl in your ear, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this to you, Witcheress.”

His words add fuel to the fire burning in your core, and you whimper as his fingers brush your nipple. It feels so delicious it is almost painful. You’ve never even allowed yourself to fantasize about this scenario, as much as you may have wanted to. You never thought it would happen – and you weren’t one to dream of impossible things. And yet, here you both were.

“Geralt,” you breathe, completely lost I the feeling as he kneads and pinches your breasts. And then… his lips. The feeling of them against your breast and his tongue flattening against your nipple is warm and soft and better than you could have ever imagined it feeling. Your eyes roll up into your head as he makes use of his free hand to gently twist and pinch the bud not currently receiving the attention of his tongue.

Heat pools in your core, twisting and tightening and aching for his touch, and, oh gods, for his tongue. Any nerves you thought you would have doing this for the first time have evaporated. There is no room in your pleasure-drunk mind for nervous thoughts.

Once again, seemingly able to read your thoughts, he slips a hand between the two of you, unfastening your belt and unlacing your trousers. For a brief moment, your mind blinks to a thought of just how practiced his hands are – but you don’t dwell on it for more than a split second. You are burning with need, and you could care less how many women Geralt has had before you – if the stories of the young man’s exploits on those rare occasions when Kaer Morhen’s young Witchers in training were given leave to take on smaller contracts here and there under supervision of elders – it doesn’t matter to you right now.

It matters even less when his hand slips into your waistband, expert fingers finding their way to where you need him most. His finger dips between your folds, gathering the wet heat pooled there for him, humming appreciatively against your chest as he lets his finger trail back up to the little bundle of nerves. His touch is perfect parts gentle and firm as he circles the small bud, making you cry out into the open air.

“You like that, Witcheress?” he asks gruffly, swirling his finger again and making you buck your hips against his hand. Making yourself form words is pretty much hopeless at this point, with his finger dancing over the hard little nub that no one save yourself has ever touched before, but your pleasured cries are more than enough answer for him.

He loves watching you like this – writhing beneath him, hips moving of their own accord, eyes blinking open and closed again. He especially loves your little gasps; the way your pretty mouth stays open in a constant ‘oh’ as he works you with his fingers. Your ragged breathing turns him on even more; your breasts rising and falling at uneven intervals as he increases his pace and pressure. And, oh gods, he loves the groan that escapes your lips when he does.

“Gods,” you say with a great deal of effort, “That feels… G-geralt!”

He watches you as your body tenses for a moment, amber eyes fixed on you as he watches you fall apart, already committing this image to memory; the first time you’d come for him. You are still twitching as the aftershocks of your orgasm wrack your body when he grabs your waistband and tugs your pants off roughly, breathing in your scent and greedily taking in the sight of you.

Your thighs tremble as he presses his lips to the inside of your calf, peppering the soft skin with kisses as he moves his way up your leg. You are still reeling from your orgasm, but already you need more. His hands follow his lips, massaging the seemingly always sore muscles of your legs and making you sigh with pleasure.

You reach down to run a hand through his hair, and he lifts his amber eyes to meet yours as he moves to your other leg, pressing kisses across ever inch of your skin. His tongue traces the crease between your thigh and your most intimate area, and your hips thrust towards his face of their own accord. But then a thought enters your mind, and you tug at his hair, “Geralt.”

“Yes, Witcheress?” he says, locking you in his intense gaze.

“I should… Shouldn’t I? You know…?” You can feel his bulge through his pants, and you are eager to touch him, to feel his hardness with your fingers, your tongue, and inside of you. But for now, Geralt clearly has other plans.

“Shh, Witcheress,” he says, nipping gently at your inner thigh with his teeth, “I’m not done with you yet.” His words send your mind into a whirl as his hands slip under your thighs to your ass, letting his shoulders hold your already quivering legs apart so that you are completely exposed to him. You whimper as he blows cool air on your heat, making you shiver.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says gruffly, eyes locked on yours once again, “But first I want to taste you.” He lets his tongue just barely graze your clit, and you whimper again, on the verge of begging. “I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Y/N?”

You can only whimper in response, your need for him an almost painful ache in your core.

“Hmm?” he rumbles, looking up at you with an impish grin, “Didn’t hear you.” You cannot think of a more beautiful sight than Geralt – the boy who was your first friend and the man who you fell in love with little by little until you were mad with it – looking up at you as if you are the only person in the world.

“Y-yes,” you whimper, voice laced with need.

“Mhm,” he growls, finally running his tongue from your opening to the little bundle of nerves. The feeling of his tongue touching you there has you seeing stars. It feels even better than his fingers as he explores you, paying particular attention to the places that make you gasp and tighten your grip on his hair.

He takes his time, savoring the way you taste, better even then he imagined – which he often had despite his efforts not to think of you that way. He’d tried to stick to the Code, he’d tried everything to keep his mind busy – every time he made a trip out of Kaer Morhen, he’d tried to distract himself, but now, as he explores you with his tongue, breathes your scent, feels your soft skin beneath his fingertips, and hears your soft gasps and moans, all he can think is that he has abided by the Code for way too fucking long.

You are absolutely lost in the feeling of his mouth on you. And, when his lips close around your clit, sucking it into his mouth and attacking it with his tongue, you cry out so loud you are almost convinced everyone back in the Keep can hear you, not that you care. He moans against you, delicious vibrations making you cry out again.

His hand has been traveling closer and closer to your entrance, and you find yourself desperately moving your hips, urging him on. This time, he obliges without teasing, seeming as if he couldn’t pull away from you if he wanted to.

He groans along with you as he slips a finger inside of you, stretching you gently. He takes his time here, too, slowly pumping his finger in and out, committing to memory every place that makes you gasp and writhe until he finds that spot. He adds another finger, focusing on the sensitive place inside of you. Your eyes screw shut as he curls his fingers in time with his tongue; he has turned you into a senseless mess.

The pleasure is too much. Every muscle in your body tenses before finally, you release. Your back arches as you cry out, thighs trapping Geralt in place as you ride out wave after wave of pleasure until finally your body goes slack and you fall back against the grass, breathing heavily.

For a moment, Geralt doesn’t move, yellow eyes drinking in the sight of you lying there slowly coming back to your senses. When your breathing has somewhat returned to normal, he slowly kisses up your body until he reaches your lips, capturing you in a kiss that seems to last forever, but still not long enough. You can taste yourself on his tongue and it drives you mad.

You are already reaching down, desperately and clumsily attempting to yank off his pants, wanting there to be nothing between the two of you. He helps you with the task, kicking off his boots and tossing his remaining clothing to the side. You watch him, eyes committing every muscle and every scar to memory, and finally you allow yourself to look lower.

It takes you a moment to realize that you’re staring, eyes wide as you consider the size of him. Not that you have anything to compare it to, but he is huge, and, considering the only thing that had been inside you before this day are your own fingers, you shiver at the thought of it. He lowers himself back onto his elbows, eyes finding yours as he brushes stray strands of hair from your sweat-soaked forehead as you blink up at him through your lashes, chewing your lower lip, feeling equal parts nervous and impatient.

As your heart hammers in your chest, he leans down to press his lips against the sensitive spot at the crook of your neck, positioning himself between your legs. You whimper as he teases you with the head of his large cock, sliding it from your entrance to your clit and back again, pausing there when all you wanted was for him to push himself inside you.

And all at once, he does. You draw in a sharp breath at the mix of pain and pleasure. He holds still for a moment, letting you adjust to the size of him. You hadn’t thought it’d feel this good. You’d not had much in the way of women to tell you about things like this here at Kaer Morhen. Most of what you learned, you learned from the boys – and you’d learn to take anything you heard from them with a grain of salt. But this – gods. It felt like pure bliss.

Finally, he slowly drew out and thrust back in again, groaning into the space between your neck and shoulder. By his third thrust, you were already raising your hips to meet his, wanting more, faster, harder. But Geralt was taking his time, despite your fingers raking his back, leaving red marks that could be mistaken for claw marks, in all honesty.

“Geralt,” his name spills from your lips in something between a sigh and a moan. He responds by kissing your neck, then moving up to kiss your lips, the two of you lying there, drinking each other in, hips moving harder and faster as he fills you up over and over again, somehow hitting every single spot inside of you, making you whimper beneath him.

You are both sweating, breathing heavily, and clawing at each other as if your lives depend on exploring every part of one another. His thrusts are even, though. A perfect rhythm that has you repeating his name over and over like a prayer. Each time, he hits that spot, and you feel that tightening in your belly, like a coil. And then, all of a sudden, it snaps, and you are lost in a sea of pleasure.

He finishes almost immediately after you, thrusts growing more and more sporadic as he finishes inside you.

The two of you lay there, half-clothed but unworried. No one will stumble upon you out here. Code be damned, you are in love. And for tonight, you are just that – not two people about to undergo the Trials, not a future Witcher and Witcheress – just two young lovers, all tangled up together, staring up at a sky fully of stars, watching the moon rise over the Snow Pine Mountains.  

Taglist: @fairytale07, @geeksareunique, @jesseswartzwelder, @haru-ririchiyo, @unnamedmaincharacter, @lazilyscentedwerewolf, @stretchkingblog97, @curlyhairedandconfused, @valkyriepuff, @comicbeginning, @alwayshave-faith, @hp-hogwartsexpress, @angelic-kisses13, @holyhumorliteraturelight, @nogitsunelichen​

(Let me know if you’d like to be added!)

[whatelsecanwedonow]

I’m picking out parts of this conversation I found especially interesting. Italics are mine:

You know, I’ve been trying to think of some precise, encapsulating question to ask you about what we’ve been witnessing over the last few weeks, and everything I was coming up with felt forced or phony. Maybe it’s better, because you’ve been eloquent during times of crisis in the past, just to ask what you’ve been thinking about and seeing in the aftermath of George Floyd’s killing? I’d like to say I’m surprised by what happened to him, but I’m not. This is a cycle, and I feel that in some ways, the issue is that we’re addressing the wrong problem. We continue to make this about the police — the how of it. How can they police? Is it about sensitivity and de-escalation training and community policing? All that can make for a less-egregious relationship between the police and people of color. But the how isn’t as important as the why, which we never address. The police are a reflection of a society. They’re not a rogue alien organization that came down to torment the black community. They’re enforcing segregation. Segregation is legally over, but it never ended. The police are, in some respects, a border patrol, and they patrol the border between the two Americas. We have that so that the rest of us don’t have to deal with it. Then that situation erupts, and we express our shock and indignation. But if we don’t address the anguish of a people, the pain of being a people who built this country through forced labor — people say, ‘‘I’m tired of everything being about race.’’ Well, imagine how [expletive] exhausting it is to live that.

Does the scale and intensity of the protests suggest some positive strides toward accountability? Maybe. Look, every advancement toward equality has come with the spilling of blood. Then, when that’s over, a defensiveness from the group that had been doing the oppressing. There’s always this begrudging sense that black people are being granted something, when it’s white people’s lack of being able to live up to the defining words of the birth of the country that is the problem. There’s a lack of recognition of the difference in our system. Chris Rock used to do a great bit: ‘‘No white person wants to change places with a black person. They don’t even want to exchange places with me, and I’m rich.’’ It’s true. There’s not a white person out there who would want to be treated like even a successful black person in this country. And if we don’t address the why of that treatment, the how is just window dressing. You know, we’re in a bizarre time of quarantine. White people lasted six weeks and then stormed a state building with rifles, shouting: ‘‘Give me liberty! This is causing economic distress! I’m not going to wear a mask, because that’s tyranny!’’ That’s six weeks versus 400 years of quarantining a race of people. The policing is an issue, but it’s the least of it. We use the police as surrogates to quarantine these racial and economic inequalities so that we don’t have to deal with them.

...we’ve got a [expletive]-up permanent campaign system with too much money in it. Don’t people know that already? The politicians don’t even know how [expletive] up their system is. Nancy Pelosi was on ‘‘The Daily Show,’’ and we were talking about how money has a corrupting influence in politics. I said, ‘‘You raised $30 million. How does that money corrupt you?’’ She said it doesn’t. So money corrupts, but not you? That’s someone within the system. And when I went down to Washington for the 9/11 victim-compensation bill, I learned something that shocked me. We had a program that was working. Bureaucratically, it wasn’t broken. What is broken about Washington isn’t the bureaucracy. It’s legislators’ ability to address the issues inherent in any society — and the reason they can’t address them is that when you have a duopoly, there is no incentive to work together to create something better. Plus, you have one party whose premise is that government is bad and whose goal is to prove that, which makes them, in essence, a double agent. All these things coalesce to make problem-solving the antithesis of what we’ve created. We’re incentivized for more extreme candidates, for more extreme partisanship, for more conflict and permanent campaigning, for corporate interests to have more influence on the process, not less. The tax code isn’t complicated because poor people have demanded that it be that way.

What do you think of the news media’s handle on this political moment more generally? I don’t think it has ever had a good handle on a political moment. It’s not designed for that. It’s designed for engagement. It’s like YouTube and Facebook: an information-laundering perpetual-radicalization machine. It’s like porn. I don’t mean that to be flip. When you were pubescent, the mere hint of a bra strap could send you into ecstasy. I’m 57 now. If it’s not two nuns and a mule, I can’t even watch it. Do you understand my point? The algorithm is not designed for thoughtful engagement and clarity. It’s designed to make you look at it longer.

Have there been any positive changes, though? Let me give you an example of what might be one: When you were doing ‘‘The Daily Show,’’ part of what made you unique was your last-sane-man-in-Crazytown quality. You would actually say that someone in power was telling a lie when the nightly newscasters wouldn’t. Now they will say that. Is that a step in the right direction? The media’s job is to deconstruct the manipulation, not to just call it a lie. It’s about informing on how something works so that you understand the lie’s purpose. What are the structural issues underneath the lie? The media shouldn’t take the political system personally, or allow its own narcissism to rise to the narcissism of the politicians, or become offended that the politicians are lying — their job is to manipulate.

How much might his administration’s response to Covid-19 hurt him in November? That’s the question the media asks. What they should be focused on is, here’s what happens when you hollow out the pandemic-response team. You have to go after the case of competence and anticorruption. The media wants to prosecute the case of offensiveness. That doesn’t matter. But there were decisions about P.P.E. and the states that were made without any federal response, and that does matter. It’s really about, what is government? Are we the Articles of Confederation? Are we the Constitution? Are we the United States? What are we? If we’re just 50 states, and if New York can push Delaware out of the way and get masks, and now Delaware has got to pay 10 times what it was going to pay — are we being led or not? It’s the wildest thing. I’ve never seen anybody who can say in the same breath, as the president does, ‘‘I am in charge, only I can fix this, and I take no responsibility.’’ You cannot process that. So what you have to process is the actual process: How do masks help? Do they help? You have to really explain it to people, but we allow the mask-wearing to be reduced to its symbolic meaning. Things like masks can’t just become another avatar of political representation. That’s where we go wrong.

This might be a little Civics 101, but I hope you’ll indulge me: A lot of your work has fundamentally been about interrogating certain truths or ideas about America and the American experiment. Things like: What does this country mean? What are its ideals and values? What’s its character? Over the last few years those questions have only become harder to contemplate in any coherent way, let alone answer. Do those questions still hold for you? Every society lies to itself to some extent. Every person does. And sometimes you have to face the truth. The truth of the American experiment is that government is messy. It’s hard to manage. We are melding cultures and religions in a way that most countries don’t. But we have an exceptionalism that we have taken for granted, and we get lost in the symbolism of who we are rather than the reality. The reality of who we are is still remarkable. You can’t take the anecdotal and pretend it’s universal. You can’t take a picture of the Lake of the Ozarks and people on top of each other drinking and say, ‘‘That’s how America responded to the pandemic.’’ Because it’s not. The boots-on-the-ground response has been phenomenally resilient and responsible and courageous. The sense that this could all turn into ‘‘Mad Max’’ tomorrow always hangs over everything — but it hasn’t. There are issues, but again, we point a spotlight on the anecdotal and pretend that it’s universal. What that does is feed the narrative for people who want to use it for their own purposes. That’s what drives me bananas. We’re basically having giant public fights about symbolism, while the reality of our situation goes unexamined.

Are you hopeful about what lies ahead? Always. Because the view we get of the country is not accurate. We get the artifice of it, the conflict of it. I’m not naïve. I don’t think that true divisions and animosities and bigotry and prejudices don’t exist. We see that every day. But fundamentally, we are a resilient and strong and resourceful nation that has oftentimes overcome our worst tendencies — ‘‘overcome’’ is probably too strong a word. But our biggest problem as humans is ignorance, not malevolence. Ignorance is an entirely curable disease.

How? Information and work. You need to talk to people. Ignorance is often cured by experience, by spending time with what you don’t understand. But I honestly don’t know. Well, you know what? I do know: In the same way that Trump’s recklessness is born out of experience, so is my optimism, because good people outweigh [expletive] people. By a long shot.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, RACH You’ve been accepted for the role of TAMORA. Admin Rosey: You’d think that a person wouldn’t REALLY be charmed by Trinity. I mean, why would they? She’s terrifying and otherworldly. I don’t know how you managed to do it, Rach, but in that interview you had me completely and utterly charmed by Trinity -- her voice, her mannerisms, everything about her had me sighing in total infatuation. But then you reminded me of who she was -- a beautiful, terrifying monster. Shaped by tragedy, but still learning and evolving. I am so incredibly happy to finally say this: everybody, welcome Trinnity Zakarian onto the dash! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

IN DEPTH

Alias | Rach

Age | 20

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | 8.5 ; These quarantimes are doing  wonders for my activity levels.

Timezone | PST

How did you find the rp?  | See below!

Current/Past RP Accounts | I play Jules over at @julianaxcapulet ;)

Character | Tamora; Trinity Khalida Zakarian 

Trinity - “Triad”

Khalida - “Deathless”

Zakarian - “God has remembered”

What drew you to this character? |

If I were to compare Trinity to Juliana at face value, I’m not sure that I could select two more different characters, but I suppose that is part of what draws me to Trinity. She is so different from what I typically look for in a character and there’s something deeply and darkly alluring about her character. There’s a certain cleverness, a certain craftiness that I sensed in her bio that initially drew me toward her. Despite her inability to feel emotion, I think she has a surprisingly strong grasp of the human condition. She has a unique perspective and furthermore, a unique understanding of people, one I think does her both a great service and disservice in the land of Verona.  

I think time and time again I am drawn to characters who experience this very quintessential loneliness, but when it comes to Trinity, there’s a distinct lack of longing for companionship which intrigues me. Here is a woman that has only ever come close to loving one thing, a son that was stolen away from her in the wake of the greatest betrayal. Her story is so tragic but clearly unfinished. I love the idea that the loss of the thing she held dearest is what marks the beginning of her story, rather than the end. If death is the beginning of Trinity’s story, then perhaps life is the end and I am extremely excited to see how that could possibly play out. 

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | 

One. 

Full disclosure, Titus Andronicus is one of my favorite tragedies but I find myself thoroughly interested in where Trinity’s story departs from (or rather begins at the end of) her namesake’s story. As mentioned in what I wrote about what drew me to Trinity, I am fascinated by how her character blurs the line between beginnings and endings. Her character stands to exist so non-linearly in such a forward-moving world. Shakespeare’s Tamora, Queen of the Goths, is driven entirely by revenge, but Trinity is a character who has had her revenge without facing the same untimely fate or consequences of her namesake. So how does Trinity exist beyond the fulfilment of her revenge? The Montagues have given her a place to plant her roots, but where and how does she grow from there? There is a ghostly quality to her presence, but it is an enduring one and I want to explore how Trinity’s spirit endures. She has already begun to develop a legacy, one written by outsiders and onlookers to her life, but what does Trinity want the world to remember of her? How does she honor her son’s memory? Is it through big, public acts or rather, through smaller, everyday actions? 

My suspicion? It’s a combination of both.

Two.

I am intrigued by how Trinity is a character that simultaneously manages to be wholly content and entirely discontent at the same time. It’s a strange line to walk. She wants for nothing, but is solely driven by this constant yearning to feel. Trinity is such a stranger to the hungry ambition that seems to drive so many of Verona’s people that I would like to see her have a taste of what really drives her new city. I would like to see Trinity put in a situation where some form of ambition is encouraged, if not required of her. Perhaps, the Montagues task her to further develop her ties to the Russians elite, or better yet, encourage her to further integrate herself into Verona’s high society, where she cannot merely slide by on the nobility of her last name. Trinity is well acquainted with the art of acting, of maintaining a presence, but what happens when what is required of her is something that must come from deep within? How does she adapt? Are her suspicions confirmed that all tasks and ventures are equally empty? Or better yet, does she find an additional avenue of finding that warmth she aches for? Does she find a new way to slow her brutal decay?

Three. 

This may sound strange, but Trinity’s connection to Mona was one that managed to surprise me, to catch me off guard (in the most pleasant way, of course). The notion of envy from a character that is so intrinsically distant from emotion adds this wonderful nuance to her character. It’s this wonderfully humanizing quality that somehow manages to still feel characteristic and honest of Trinity. There are hints of this passion throughout Trinity’s bio-- the spark she feels when her son is born, the desperation in her bones when she stabs her wife. I love the idea of such grievous, deplorable emotions being the tipping point for her, which is why I would really love to explore what else within Verona can ignite such fury, such wrath from detached being like herself. Besides Mona, I would love to explore the different emotions that can be pulled from Trinity through her different connections. Conversely, there’s a part of me that wants to see Trinity become attached to something, to someone, especially because I know it’s something she would be resistant to, something she may not even recognize within herself. I think there’s a lot of potential ways that it can be taken (maybe with Grace?), but I would be very excited to explore how that might unfold.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Always

Please choose between the interview or the para sample (or both, if you like!)

Tw: murder, death, blood, torture (kind of)

What is your favorite place in Verona? | 

To have a favorite, is to have attachment, Trinity thinks. She is keenly aware that an attachment is not something she possesses within the confines of Verona borders, or perhaps, possesses at all. In truth, she does not particularly care for Verona. Faron had promised her that the warmth of Italian summers was incomparable, though she’s been rather underwhelmed by the mellowness of the Veronian sun. Every now and then she finds herself longing for the endless, Russian winters which were at least bitter enough to send a chill through her bones. 

“The Lamberti Tower.”

“Why?” the interviewer presses further, as if intrigued by her lack of elaboration. His reaction alone alerts her to the nature of his being-- he’s the typical journalist type, addicted to the thrill of uncovering secrets and stories. He’s eager and objectively handsome enough to make something of himself, but perhaps too curious, too invested in his art for his own good. She thinks she might see something in him but she’s not sure what. 

She contorts her lips into what passes for a pleased smile, though the creases beside her eyes fail to form, “I like the view from the top.”

The interviewer pries no further and Trinity decides he may actually possess enough self-control to go far in life. 

What does your typical day look like?

Trinity takes in the question, absorbing it before formulating a calculated response in her head. It’s a much preferred question to the previous one and it’s one Trinity supposes she can humor for the time being-- no revealing of attachments, no nostalgia or falsified wistfulness. 

Since the passing of her son, her days have begun to blur together-- only identified today, tomorrow, yesterday. She puts no faith in the distant future that she does not know, for she sees her life in two acts: before her son and after her son is born. Alexei’s death marks the end of her life, as he takes her heart with him to the grave. It’s a morbid finale followed by a somber epilogue, in which she must continue living. 

“The day begins in the early hours of the morning, when my sleep breaks,” Trinity begins as though she is narrating a story known well by her missing heart. 

“And then there are the meetings and of course, more meetings…” she draws on with the tilt of her head, as if to highlight the fact that they are engaged in some sort of meeting right now. She recounts the numerous times those around her have complained of their lengthy meetings and in truth, Tamora doesn’t really care. She has no particular affinity for small talk nor discussions of projected growth, but there was something to be said for the time that they managed to fill. What else was she to do with her countless hours of the day? There was nothing leisurely about her life, no excitement to be captured from the monotonous joys her brethren seemed to so easily delight in. She could feign delight and desire with a flawless accuracy, but it did little to hide the ultimate truth that there was no spark to be found behind those hollow eyes. 

“Meetings can be so dull,” she adds for good measure, leaning in towards the interviewer, as if to confess something honest. Really, it’s just an easy lie, one with a dangerous relatability that manages to produce a nod of agreement and knowing smile from the young man she sits with. He’s charmed now, confident that he’s managed to peer into her mind, elicit some great secret from a locked vault. Little did he know that if he were to truly see inside the woman before him, he would be consumed whole by a dark and tormentful emptiness, a ceaseless, gruesome night with no end in sight.

“After finishing up my personal work, I like to return home and unwind...perhaps even watch a movie. I’ve always been partial to films ever since I was a child.”.  

“Oh, I wasn’t aware that you liked movies, Miss Zakarian,” the interviewer notes, with mild interest scribbling something down on his notepad for the first time during the duration of their entire interview. 

“Doesn’t everyone like a little escapism?” she replies, actively curling the edges of her lips into an easy smile, an expression so well-practiced it seemed as though it was the most natural response in the world. 

This time Trinity had afforded him a half-truth, for indeed she did occupy her time with the occasional movie, though never with the intentions of escape (she had long known of their ineffectiveness). Rather, there was something educational to be taken from films, to absorb the mechanics at which actors expressed themselves so convincingly. Films were like holy scriptures to her, unflinching in their portrayal of the human psyche, even if not always intentional. There were lessons to be learned from even from the worst actors, just as there were lessons to be learned from the worst kind of people.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far? 

The ghost of her smile fades just as quickly as it had formed itself upon Trinity’s face. Mistakes were certainly treacherous territory. 

The answer seems increasingly unclear to Trinity as she sees herself gazing into her wife’s eyes one final time, as she plunges a knife into her lover’s heart, over and over again. Her eyes are dry, for she cannot yet weep for the child she has lost at the hands of a woman she had sworn her life to. She had sealed her wife’s fate without a moment’s hesitation and made her pay for her wretched crime, in the only way she knew how. Trinity had watched the life fade away from her wife slowly, her eyes glazed over, devoid of sentiment, ensuring her beloved knew that the price of her betrayal was her life. Only when they are both truly gone, does she finally dissolve. For one brief, shining moment, her grief manifests in a tidal wave of anger, sorrow, rage, and tears and it is the last time she ever comes close to touching life. Alone in her cursed home she falls apart, clinging the body of her dead son tightly against his chest as his blood pools around her, drenching her dress in an unsightly crimson.

When Trinity finally leaves her home she never returns, nor does her heart. It’s remains had been left behind to turn to ash, along with everything else she had ever loved.

She attempts to discern what marked the beginning of the end, what had set the stage for such tragedy and betrayal but she finds herself largely unsuccessful. Each moment was interwoven within the next, each choice could be traced back further and further until her memory turned to oblivion. 

“Identifying one’s biggest mistake is a futile endeavor,” Trinity replies aloofly, her counterfeit charm giving way to something far more harrowing. If the young man before her was so eager to peer behind her mask, then she supposed she ought to offer him a glance. “Every mistake is merely a summation of what has come before it.”

“So, your biggest mistake is being born?” the interviewer frowns, attempting to gather whatever scraps he can from her cryptic response. His tone suggests confusion but there’s something that resembles intrigue that forms upon his well-sculpted features. 

Trinity presses her lips together firmly but does not correct his assumption.

What has been the most difficult task asked of you? 

“Tasks implies a sense of duty...” Trinity replies pointedly. The very notion of a task seemed to involve some sort of great undertaking, which much like sentimentality, was not something Trinity had ever associated with. She makes a conscious effort to lace her cool fingers together in her lap. If the young man were to shake her hand now, he was sure to be frightened by the chillness of her touch. 

“And you do not possess a sense of duty?” the interviewer prods, though this time he’s managed to more effectively mask his surprise at her response. He seems more engaged now, fascinated by the woman that sits before him, desperate to unearth more of her secrets.

“I did, once,” Trinity nods, affirmatively and she sees her young son’s face in the corner of the room. He’s looking at her imploringly, with bright eyes and she sees the only spark of life she’s ever known. “But I am no longer beholden to that duty.” 

“Why not? Did you succeed? Did you fail?” 

“Success and failure are not metrics of difficulty,” she answers, “Just as some people fail at easy tasks, others succeed at difficult tasks.”

“And you?”

She gazes through the young man before her and her eyes settle on the wall behind him, as through she could see straight through his skull. He looks nothing like her Alexei, but she finally understands what she’s recognized in him the moment they met. His eyes are so bright, so full of promise, that she’d like to sink her cold thumbs into the sockets of each eye and push harder and harder until she felt that warmth, that brightness, even if only for a few solemn moments. 

 “Success, task, failure, difficult-- they’re all just words, маленький, empty words. It would serve you well to learn that.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

Arguably, Trinity's loyalty to the Montagues likely failed to constitute loyalty at all. It was merely a convenience, if that. 

“Where do your loyalties lie?” she asks, turning the question back towards him. 

“I’m journalist, Miss Zakarian...I’m loyal to the truth,” he says, and Trinity cannot help but grit her teeth slightly, a rare reaction from the otherwise largely unresponsive woman. What could this man possibly know of the truth? 

“So you truly possess no ties to the Montagues, then?” Trinity clarifies, as she stands from her chair stepping closer to the young man, cupping his face, her icy fingers searing into the warmth of his skin as she examines his every feature.

“No...no,” he replies, his eagerness mounting as his own hands settle upon her waist, gazing at her with a hunger she cannot possibly begin to relate to. “Honestly, they would probably prefer if I wasn’t around. They don’t really like independence around these parts...but you do, right? You’re really not like the rest of them are you?”

“No, I am not,” comes from the lips of the corpse-like woman and it’s the first truly honest admission she’s made through the entire interview. She looks at him vacantly as her fingers slowly slide from his jaw to his throat until they settle firmly around his neck and begin to squeeze.

She looks on as his expression morphs from excitement to confusion to desperation which manages to send a single tingle running down her spine. He attempts to struggle but her grasp is too tight and by the time he’s realized his fate it’s too late. His body releases one final shudder before eventually falling limp below her. With two fingers, she drags his eyelids shut with mild satisfaction as she has finally managed to extinguish the light.

She exits the room silently and glides to the hallway void of any emotion. When they eventually ask who finally took care of that terribly nosy young journalist, she’ll collect her payment but not before her lips curl into that well-practiced and reply, “A ghost.”

Extras:

Mock Blog 

Pinterest 

[fairyshuuu]

The taste of gold 1/2

.summary. You work in one of the most expensive places in the world. The glitz and glamour is a daily, by now. The one thing you don’t expect, is for the boss to take an interest in you. A really obnoxious, annoying interest. .word count.  9.5k .pairing. baekhyun x reader .genre. fluff

part 1.   part 2.   smut.

There’s a certain range of colors that scream rich. Breathe it, kiss it every day before they go to work, the sound of coins hitting the bank. Soft, gentle colors, like champagne, and peach, and gold, that wrap around you and continue the gentle shades of their skin and warm them from within the cells. There’s royal blue, the color that tastes like the deepest part of the sea, the most open part of the soul, and maybe also the most deceitful part. Rosé, and burgundy, and velvet, colors that stick to your tongue and make a home there, drinking you in. They call attention, shout it at the top of their lungs and while you might never wear rich, you’ve seen a lot of it.

You’ve seen it when you walk out of your apartment, gold glitter reflecting off the dark tinted windows of the private limo that waits for some equally dark dressed woman. When you get off the tram and walk to around the corner to see Heaven’s Gate reflect the sunrise off of it’s spotless glass windows, visible from what you can only imagine is every corner of Seoul. When you walk into the over-sized hall through the back door and tug on your uniform, catching your reflection in your golden name tag. When you scoot in next to the two other girls at reception a few minutes before 6, and glance carefully at the heels so high that they cannot be comfortable. The dresses so soft and shimmery that if you were to look too long you might damage your retinas.

Those colors that scream rich. You don’t think you like those colors. Secretly, of course, you long for them at the same time. You long to touch and smell and breathe those colors, those fabrics, those drinks and those people like everyone else. But they’re not meant for you, you think. They wouldn’t match with the blush of your cheeks, the dark under your eyes and certainly not with the snow white color of your soul on a rainy day. Still though, it’s enchanting to watch, like visiting the zoo for the nth time. You know what types of figures will pass the doors, but can’t find it to look away.

The women with smiles of a million won, diamonds draped around their dainty fingers and necks and littered in their hair like they were born with them attached to their skin. The ones with the long champagne dresses, flaunting their elegant slim shapes and giggling while connecting their arms with the date of the evening. The men with suits that look so crisp that they must have never been worn before, those who slide their black cards across the counter with a smile. Before you got a job at Heaven’s gate, you honestly believed that every rich person was terrible. A stereotype, sure, but one taken from reality, you assumed. Most people here though, are polite, magical at their best and at least helpful at their worst.

There are the few rot apples in the bunch, the teenage boys who come in smoking, smile on their soft lips like the entire world revolves around them and maybe it does to an extent. The girls who give sneers when the bellboy drops one of the twenty-eight bags that were pushed into their hands. But these are exceptions, and so you’ve grown to admire the beauty of gold. You admire the confidence of the people who walk into the hall like they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You get lost in the eyes of the woman who sends you a wink when you give her a deep bow and rush to hold the door open for her and her pristine blood-red heels.

You eat them up like cherry ice cream, because in truth, you don’t know how long this will last and you long to keep a little bit of the glamour locked in your mind, dusted on your fingertips. Heaven’s Gate is the largest and most reputable housing chain in South Korea, and maybe even all of Asia. It’s only affordable for people who have so much money that they could fill a swimming pool with it, of course, but it’s gorgeous, and the people in it are too. How you ever got a job, even a minor one, is still beyond you. If Heaven’s Gate was a cake, she’d be so sweet that you get cavities just looking at it, if she was a person, you’d beg for a single breath in your direction.

As you carefully sip on a cup of coffee in the back room, you sigh. Even this room, one for the staff that no guest will ever see, is grandiose. It’s almost painful, how much money it must cost to exist in the vicinity of something like Heaven’s Gate. The name is no lie. You let your nail run over the marble counters for a second, and glance around the room. The table is a white marble, chairs decorated in gold, the curtains are a delicate creme and the lights are golden chandeliers that create sparkles on your skin. Your damn coffee tastes like it came straight from up in the clouds, for fuck sake. You take a look out of the window, and press your lips tight. The floor-to-ceiling windows give you a view into the small car park that sits behind the complex, displaying the billions of won worth of cars that have their own little paradise.

The car park is also called the Garden of Eden, and even this is no lie. The cars are shrouded in the shadows of the tall, blindingly green trees, and surrounded by millions of flowers that all somehow look too expensive for a normal garden. There’s a little waterfall that runs from farther into the park, and runs past the first line of cars as if the cars themselves need a nice view too. The large white fountain that lights up in gold when evening falls is just visible from the window here. You sigh, and put your cup down, placing it in the dishwasher under the sink. You don’t need to do this since the cleaning crew passes every two hours, but you feel guilty leaving it out to dirty the beautiful counters.

A gentle knock comes on the door, as you look up in slight surprise. Your co worker Bea walks in with a small smile on her cherry lips, and gives you a little nod. She is, much like you are, dressed in a silk top, a soft gold of color, and a deep coal colored pencil skirt. The gold name tag sits proudly on the right side of the uniform, name engraved into it clearly. Her black heels tap against the heated stone floor as she walks over to you and starts making a cup of coffee for herself. “Do you want one?” She asks over her shoulder, to which you gratefully decline. “Ah, is your break almost over?”

“Yeah,” you glance at the clock once, “I still have a minute and fifty-three seconds.” Bea giggles and nods, while you move to the mirror to check your uniform, just to be sure. When you first got it in the mail, you thought a mistake must have been made. Which employer gives their employees a silk blouse? You’d spent the whole of your first day terrified of spilling anything on the fabric. You quickly understood how important impressions here were, from the bellboys to the chefs in the kitchen, everyone looked like they walked straight out of a fairy tale. You wipe your hands on the soft white towel once, and nod. About time to get back to work.

“Oh, Y/N!” Bea suddenly calls, as you turn to look at her. “Are you coming to lunch later? I want to go but I’m not sure if my schedule will allow it.”

You bite your lip. “I wasn’t planning on going, honestly.” You internally let out a long sigh. All of it is a lot, the company lunches. The morning staff gets to go to lunch at three, to make sure all the guests have had their meals before, and talk and drink until about five. All while the afternoon staff is helping the guests. It’s a whole gathering, and that almost every single workday.

“But you can? You’re missing out on an amazing meal paid by the company because you want to?” At her shock, you giggle, and nod.

“I feel guilty letting Heaven’s Gate pay my food.” You admit, glancing at the clock again. Thirty seconds. You might have to cut your exchange with Bea short.

Bea hums, and takes a sip of her coffee as she leans her back against the counter. “I don’t know if it’s true but I actually heard that the employee meals aren’t paid by Heaven’s. I heard it’s straight out of the Boss’ personal bank account.”

Your mouth almost falls open unceremoniously, but you manage to hold it in. Lunch for hundreds of employees, everyday? “That can’t be, right? Why would he do that?”

“He always says in interviews that he wouldn’t be anywhere without his staff. Maybe he’s thankful.” You look away from the pretty girl to stare at the floor, in shock. If that’s true, the Boss would be even more sickly rich than you thought. But no, that’s crazy. No one can be that stupidly rich. Right?

You’re sure everyone is losing their shit. You’re losing your shit along with them. Your heart beats about seventy times a minute too fast, and your throat is as dry as the Sahara desert. Something about seeing the more experienced employees freak out, made every string in you snap. The boss has never been in Seoul for longer than a week since you started at the company, which means that you’ve never had to interact with him before. Haerin, the head receptionist, touches up her lipstick quickly, before sliding her chair back in place, and presses a hand to her chest. Bea looks about ready to throw up, and you’re sure you must be icy white from stress, or as red as a strawberry.

“Don’t worry, girls.” Haerin smiles as she looks over at you two, but you can see the nerves swim in her eyes too. “The Boss is a nice man, and you probably won’t even have to say anything. Just don’t stare too hard at him with your love-hearts, Bea.” Bea chuckles at the comment, and send the older girl a little glare. At the comfortable banter, you feel yourself relax a little. You’ve been around people who could buy your life more times than you can count. This is worse though. This man is your employer, and he could choose to fire you right on the spot, if he so pleased. No one apparently expected him to pass by today, since he was in Paris ‘till yesterday, but Haerin’s wide-eyed announcement came before you had time to process.

You’re silenced when a car pulls up in front of the entrance, a white Porsche with fire-red tires. Two people of staff rush over to open the doors of the car, and help the people out. The woman that slips out of the passenger side is tall, a model no doubt, and flicks her blonde hair over her shoulder with a gentle smile of her delicately manicured face. She wears a dress as blue as the water in the Bahamas, to match her eyes. The man that slips from the driver side hands his keys to the staff, and says something with a blinding smile, before walking over to hold out his arm to the woman. The man is taller than her, and has beautiful honey colored skin, and black hair. His tie matches her dress. They both make it up the stairs to the entrance, million dollar smiles on both of their faces. The flashes of paparazzi are blinding.

When you glance at your co workers, they seem to relax slightly. Haerin puts on her beautiful welcoming smile, and bows to greet the guests. It’s not the Boss, but still your heart pitter patters almost right out of your chest. Even quicker than usual, you think, Haerin has the room key in her hands and offers it with a smile, receiving the black card of the man in return. She hands it to Bea, who passes it to you, for a quick scan. You then hand it back, and glance back at the gorgeous couple. You might never stop getting starstruck while working here. When the payment confirms, Haerin sends them off with the last bit of info, Bea handing them the flyer carefully. The man gives a grateful nod to each of you, before leading the elegant woman to the elevators.

You don’t get time to process, because a loud growling engine makes a halt in front of the entrance just as the white Porsche is driven off. This time though, the paparazzi are snapping so many pictures that the entire evening sky is light up with white. You straighten your back to look, but all you see is the flashes of cameras left and right. You can only imagine him getting out, sending a charming smile at the cameras, and walking up the stairs confidently. The security turns toward the entrance as well, making sure to keep any paparazzi out. They do this anyway, but this time it seems like it might be necessary. The glass rotating door soon reveals a person, bathing his shape in a glow from the flashes.

When he walks through the door, your eyes have trouble processing. You’ve never seen a person ooze so much confidence. Byun Baekhyun. Ceo of Heaven’s Gate, along many, many other businesses. Only 27, and owns 13 companies, each worth millions, along with some of the most expensive properties on earth. You don’t know how high he is on the richest people list, but the top ten would definitely not surprise you. Baekhyun casually strolls over to the reception smiling like he owns the place, because he quite literally does, and leans his elbows on the pristine pink marble.

You can’t help but stare. His gorgeous face is lined by a sharp jaw, cute button nose and pinky lips fitting on there perfectly like a dolls features. They are accompanied by the prettiest, most enchantingly seductive eyes you’ve ever seen on a man, all coated in a shine that seems to come from the inside. His hair is a shimmery copper brown color, striking against his dark, deep blue eyes. Contacts, you guess, but not any less breathtaking. His suit is a royal blue too, shining in the light like Cashmere, and stretching over his wide shoulders just that tiny bit, as he leans forward. His lips curl up on his cute cheeks, a gorgeous smile slipping on, gentle and proud.

The suit becomes him perfectly, a handmade addition to his entire persona, accenting everything attractive perfectly. Wide shoulders and chest, slim waist, strong legs and a perfectly shaped butt. Not that you’re looking. He’s absolutely, entirely made of gold, you’re sure of it. You are probably drooling. After staying silent for at least a few seconds, Mr. Byun takes out his card, and slides it across the counter towards Haerin, who looks more than a little starstruck too. She gives him a deep bow, and scans the card, smiling nervously. “Good evening, Sir. It’s lovely to see you visit once again.”

The man nods, and finally straightens up, winking at her. “Likewise.” In a split second, Haerin’s cheeks flush a bright red. Mr. Byun looks around the beautiful welcome hall for a bit, as if taking in his creation, and back at the paparazzi outside. It’s only after a second you realize Bea is shoving you with her arm, gesturing to hand her one of the flyers. You flush and hand it to her, right before Baekhyun can see. “Is the top floor free this week, Haerin? If not, my penthouse will suffice.” He brushes his hands over his suit jacket once, and smiles again. You’ve never seen anyone’s face light up so much with a single smile.

“The top floor is free until Friday, Sir. Should I move the reservation of the residents to another floor?” Haerin quickly informs, a small frown on her gentle face.

“No need.” He takes Bea’s flyer into his long fingers with a teasing crinkle of his nose. “I’ll stay on the top floor until Thursday, and then move down to my penthouse.” He gives Haerin another little smile when she nods in understanding and indicates things on the computer. You snap out of your staring long enough to reach into the drawer to your side and take out the key card, handing it to Bea carefully. Room 208, on the hundred thirtieth floor. You almost laugh at the irony. They call it a room, but the home is bigger than your entire apartment floor.

When Haerin hands him the card, he gives her a little bow, and starts walking backwards. He glances through the door for a second, feigning a frown. “Be careful with my car!” He calls, before giggling and looking at the reception desk on more time. As if someone so rich would care what happened to their car. “I’ll see you ladies later. Have a good evening.” As he turns to walk over to the elevators, his eyes meet yours. Just a split second, they meet yours for the first time this evening, and widen. He keeps walking but a second later, he looks again, definitely straight at you. Your cheeks probably flush bright red. Then he’s disappearing into the elevator with confident steps, and out of view.

Bea’s hand wrapping around your arm pulls you out of your dreamy fascination and back into reality. “Holy shit. That was so intense.” She whispers, leaning into you a little. You blankly nod, and look back at the elevator. That must have been the most surreal moment of your life. You know of Byun Baekhyun, of course, you’d be an idiot not to know of your filthy rich boss. The first time you heard his name was four years ago, long into his career but fresh into yours, back then he had black hair and stared you down on a magazine cover as the most influential man of the year. You’ve read about him and seen his pictures more times than you can count but nothing, nothing does him justice. You decide it’s the eyes. They don’t capture the full magic of his eyes.

With a yawn, you settle behind your desk. You’ve never had the night shift before, and you imagine it shows. You’re determined to stay professional though, and blink a couple of times in hopes of getting the need of sleep out. You briefly wonder how many people would be passing through the doors this late, or early, but since it’s enough to have a whole crew work through the night, it must be a decent amount. Then again, you guess rich people have a lot of parties to attend to. Unlike you.

The silence is broken by the back door being cracked open, and a knowing smile walking through. Sehun, you read from his name tag, smiles at you and waves. He walks over and takes the seat next to you, not before placing a large cup of coffee in front of your face. “So you’re the poor soul they got to do night shift, huh?” With a giggle, you thank him for the coffee and take a sip. You’ve seen Sehun a few times around, when you came on mornings early and he left late, and once at the paid lunch. You haven’t spoken much before, but he seems quite nice.

“I volunteered, actually.” At his comically offended look, you break out laughing. “I know.”

“You must either be very dedicated to this job, or crazy.” Sehun concludes, taking a sip himself with a grin. “I mean, if you want a raise I’m sure you could just ask Mr. Byun and he’d transfer some pocket change to your account.”

You snort, looking away. “Yes, of course. That’s how people get raises, isn’t it?”

Sehun hums, before folding his one leg over the other, and leaning back in his chair a bit. He’s wearing the male version of your uniform, white button-up and light golden tie, along with black slacks. He smiles when he sees you looking. “This is your first nightly reception job, isn’t it?”

You nod. “It is. It’s also my first time being with just two behind this desk, if I must admit.”

“You’ll have to hand people keys and scan their cards, think you can handle it?” His grin only grows when you don’t respond. “You know, the nights aren’t that bad. They’re pretty fun, actually. You get to see a lot of people stumble in on stilettos and with partners they definitely didn’t leave with.” This, in all honesty, surprises you. The people who enter during the day are so polished, so spotless, that any doubts didn’t cross your mind. Of course, humans are still humans.

Sehun groans for a second as he stretches his back, before he gets up from the chair. “Give me just one minute. I need to use the toilet real quick. I’ll be back in a flash, okay?” You nod, and watch him leave around the corner with some hurried steps, before taking a deep breath. You look at the windows, who now give a clear view over the fountain, as it lights up the driveway, along with the lines of spots. While you stare, a black Lamborghini rolls up slowly. Your palms get sweaty, as you look back and forward between the car and the way Sehun left. You’ve heard the speech you’re supposed to give new guests a million times by now, but you’re far from head receptionist.

The lift dings, making you scream internally and quickly put Sehun’s chair where it’s supposed to be, standing up smoothly. Out walks, with a casual stroll, Mr. Byun himself. His hair is styled away from his face, wearing a deep brown suit jacket that has the Gucci logo littered all over in sparkling letters. His hands are stuffed into the pockets, bulging them as if that piece of fabric doesn’t cost more than your rent, as his shoes tap calmly across the perfect floor. When he looks over at the reception desk, his eyebrows shoot up, confusion evident on his face. He walks over, before coming to a halt in front of you. He smells really nice, you notice. You don’t have a clue what scent it’s supposed to be but don’t doubt it costs way too much. A hint of sweetness, but laced with masculinity.

“Good evening, Mr. Byun.” You start, hoping the smile distracts from the nervous way your hands are clasped behind your back. “How can I help you?”

Baekhyun smiles at you, something that makes your heart slam, if possible, even harder against your rib cage. His eyes rake down to catch your name tag subtly, as if he doesn’t want you to notice. And if you weren’t staring so hard you would have missed it, too. “Good evening, Y/N. Where has your colleague gone?” His eyes are on yours the whole time, eye contact way too intense for you to take. Your heart really might soon give out if he keeps this up.

“He’s just gone to the restroom, Sir. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

Baekhyun hums in thought, before tapping his fingers on the marble, and glancing behind him. At the other side of the room is a door towards one of the many lounge rooms, now bathing in a gentle dimmed orange light. You doubt there’s anyone in there right now, apart from the serving staff and their champagne bottles. He turns back to you, and fishes something out of his back pocket, pressing his lips together. “Well, I’d like something delivered to my penthouse, please.” He sorts through a stack of at least ten different cards, sliding a gold one over to you. You nod, as you wait for the rest of his words. “Another mini fridge, for on the balcony. I’m sure I once had one but I think I might have moved it to my jet at some point.” He smiles.

You open your mouth to answer, only to realize you don’t have anything useful to say, and nod a couple times in acknowledgement. You slide the gold card towards you and grasp it between two fingers, leaning over to scan it. It slips though, and is sent clattering to the floor in the otherwise silent room. You can feel blood surge to your cheeks while you bend to pick it up, wishing you could just sink into the floor from shame. “I’m so sorry, that was clumsy-” When you get up, you smack your head into the bottom of the desk, and double over with a little yelp. “Aw, aw, aw, aw, aw.” You rub the back of your head when you straighten up, and just sigh. At this point, you don’t know if your nerves give up trying to entertain you or if you’re just numb.

You scan his card, and slide it back over to him, right when Baekhyun chuckles. You look up to see him looking with an endeared smile. “Are you okay over there?”

“I’m okay.” You ensure with a little guilty smile, waving your hands in front of you, and lean over the computer to confirm the order.

Baekhyun leans over the desk though, and into your space. “Let’s see.” He mumbles, gently placing his one hand on your cheek and the other behind your head, rubbing it back and forth gently. Your brain goes so fried that you can’t even make a sound, let alone move. It’s about three seconds of physical contact you were entirely unprepared for. He smiles again, before letting go. “That’s definitely going to be a bump.” You think you mouth a ‘thank you’, but at this point you might have said anything or nothing at all. He puts his card back into his back pocket, and takes a step back from the counter, looking over at his car. “Ah, walk with me?” He motions his head just slightly, as an added nudge to get you to move.

“Uhm- I-” You tumble, wiping your hands on your skirt, “the reception will be empty if I…”

Baekhyun smiles. “I think guests will forgive you walking the owner to his car.” His voice is a tad lower when he teases, going along with the little tilt of his eyebrow. You swallow, and nod, hurrying around the long desk on your heels to walk over to him. Right at that moment, Sehun comes around the corner. His eyes widen significantly when he notices that he just missed the Boss himself, and then even more at you. He sends you a questioning look, that you just mimic as you come to a halt next to Byun Baekhyun himself. You will yourself to wipe the mute look of shock of your face and smile.

Baekhyun holds out his arm, that you grab just ever so lightly, your fingertips barely brushing the fabric of his suit. He starts walking then, a smile on his lips that you catch from the corner of your eyes. You two walk through the door smoothly, into the chilly night air, and descend the beautiful stairs. In the few seconds it takes, you think you’ve gone through about a thousand logical reasons why you’re doing this, and a thousand more illogical ones. Baekhyun grabs the key from the man in front of him with a little nod, and deposits you to wait around the passenger side. He hurries his steps just a little to get into the low car, and rolls down the passenger window.

You blankly watch as he leans over to the console, and fishes through something to look up at you. You bend over so that you can take whatever is in his outstretched arm. “Take this to go get yourself an ice pack and some painkillers, please. I’m sorry about your head.” In your hand are six bills of a hundred thousand won. Before you can even open your mouth to discuss about the huge amount of money he just stuffed into your hands without looking, he sends you a blinding smile and a wave. “Don’t get too cold in that stuffy reception. Have a good night, Y/N.”

“You too.” You can just mumble, before the black Lamborghini speeds out of the driveway, into traffic.

Bea makes a face, and looks over at you once. “I mean,” she mumbles, stuffing one of the pralines in her mouth like it’s no big deal, “they’re cute, but they can’t be serious, right?” On the counter in the back room lay three golden boxes, with each of your names scribbled on top. Haerin giggles as she too takes out the present, and holds it up in front of her with her eyebrows shooting up. You can’t hold a little smile. In the bow is a pair of extremely soft, thick thigh high socks, black and with little bows at the front. You too untie the pretty packaging and open the box, breaking out in giggles. Bea shakes her head but smiles, mouth dropping open. “I mean, it’s not that damn cold at that desk. This is just overkill.”

“I think they’re nice.” You grin, poking the extremely soft, woolly fabric. You carefully take them out.

Bea glances at you and gives you a little shove. “As a uniform?!” She frowns when you laugh, and place the socks back in the bow. “I’m going to be sweating my ass off.”

Haerin shakes her head. “It’s designer.”

“Of course it is.” You sigh, shaking your head. You glance inside to check the label, and sure enough. Marc Jacobs. You don’t want to know how ridiculous the price of a couple of socks was. You pout, but pop off your heels, and bend down.

“What are you doing?” Bea questions, looking over at you.

“If Mr. Byun wants me to wear these, I’m going to wear these. At least until he’s back in New York or Barcelona or something. I’m not losing my job because I’m feeling a tad hot.” You giggle when you glance over at her begrudgingly put on the socks as well.

“How can I put my heels over this? It’s just silly.” Bea sighs, but she clearly isn’t ready to lose her income either. Not that you’re so sure Mr. Byun would just fire her, thinking back to yesterday. He genuinely seems like a good person, just coated in much more money than any sane person needs. When you turn around to put the box away, your eyes widen slightly. On the inside of the box is a tiny message scribbled in pen, the same messy handwriting as on the top of the box. ‘How’s your head? -B’

You don’t dare tell your co workers, because what would they think of you? Instead, you take the box and the other empty ones, and stack then next to the trash can, before walking out the door and behind the desk. Your head is fine, a little sore but fine nevertheless and you can’t help but wonder why your Boss would care. You didn’t use the money he gave you yesterday, but did go buy an ice pack after work, in the little shop the closest to the station. There’s only expensive stores in the vicinity, and you were not going to spend twenty thousand won for an overpriced luxe ice pack that you could easily get for two thousand won instead. You had just placed the money in a white envelope and placed it on your desk, in a hopes to get to deliver it back to him.

You don’t know if other people would have just taken the money, but you felt guilty about it. As you settle on your chair, the lounge across the reception catches your eye. There were definitely no huge flower bouquets on the tables last night, let alone three luxurious beige leather couches, with gold rims. Baekhyun sure had a vision for his company, and he never seemed to be satisfied. You look away when Bea and Haerin come to take their places too, talking among themselves quietly until they take place, then slipping into professional mode. It’s 6 now, and you only got off at 4 earlier, which left you with about half an hour of sleep, which you decided to skip as well. You just figure you could get an extra long night when you get off at 3.

At around 1 in the afternoon, you find out that you’re really not the type to go without sleep. You can barely keep your eyes open, and keep falling asleep on your hand, only to snap awake when your head bobs too much forward. Bea snickers every time it happens, but doesn’t say anything. She’s also had the night shift a few times when she was a newer employee and she ended up even more zombie like than you. Still though, you keep an eye out for Mr. Byun. He doesn’t pass reception the entire morning, and at two, you start getting a bit fidgety. You’d really like to deliver him the money right away, so that your conscience got a little break. You excuse yourself, and stand up. “I need to go deliver Mr. Byun the documents of the ordered mini-fridge before my shift ends. Would it be okay if I went up now, Haerin?”

Haerin blinks her long lashes at the clock quickly, before nodding. “Of course. He’s still on top floor, I think. And when you go, would you mind dropping off some of the paperwork left here?” You give her a grateful bow, and stand up to take the papers from her. You just did a quick prayer that he would not be at lunch yet, and hurry your steps to the elevators. The gorgeously gold decorated elevators, along with a deep black sort of stone. It wouldn’t surprise you if this too, was marble. You quickly press the button, and cross your arms over your chest. Though you’ve been to visit the ‘rooms’ a few times when you just started working, you’ve never ever been up higher than the fiftieth floor. Both because you’re mildly scared of highs and because that’s where the really, really rich people live.

You step into the empty lift slowly, and brush your hand on your skirt, before pressing the very top floor. Hundred thirty, to be exact. When you said Heaven’s Gate might be visible from every part of Seoul, you weren’t kidding. It’s the second highest building in the world to date. You have to scan your employee card, to get up to it too. With a deep breath, you watch the doors close. The calming music that plays is vaguely recognizable, but you’re too busy flicking your eyes all over the elevator in worry to care. When you get up to floor seventy two, within a sickeningly quick span of time, the lift stops, and opens. In walks a tall man, his stature standing far above you with dark hair and even darker eyes. Your breathing holds.

World class singer Park Chanyeol is standing in an elevator with you. His voice plays through the speakers in the small room. He sends you a warm smile, and presses the button, before the door closes again. Trying to stay professional, you only glance over twice, clenching the papers between your fingers too tight. Park Chanyeol is one of those people you had heard of staying in Heaven’s Gate, but had never actually seen. He’s wearing a dark suit, very crisp and clean looking, and his hair is styled neatly. He’s not wearing any type of make-up, you notice, used to see the singer on magazines in his signature soft glam eye looks. He still looks incredible though. When the elevator reaches it’s destination, he steps out, sending you a little nod of the head.

You only dare breathe after the doors close again, and continue up, watching the floors flash by in an instant. When you finally get up to the last floor, you need to take a deep breath to calm your nerves and gather your wit. When you walk out, you’re surprised to be in his actual house. You’re inside his actual house, without being checked by security or anything. You just look around blankly, and swallow. This isn’t the case with the lower floors, so you’re not sure what to do. “Uhm,” you clear your throat, and knock on the frame of the elevator once, “Mr. Byun? I have the paperwork for your order and the ones that were left for you at reception.”

A soft hum comes from somewhere in the stupidly large place, followed by a raspy voice, no doubt from sleep. “One minute. I’m putting on clothes.” You can feel the heat flush your cheeks, as you look out the window. “Take a seat!” He calls after you, and you move to do just that. The couches are decorated with Gucci logos, most likely custom, and way too soft for a normal person to have. It keeps surprising you, even though it shouldn’t. The view from the wall of windows though, genuinely makes you gasp. You can see the Ocean. That shouldn’t be possible, and yet, you’re so high up that it is. It’s faint, sure, but you can see it. You put the papers down on the coffee table, no doubt designer, and walk a little closer. Though you don’t dare look down, you watch with held breath. It’s like being up in the clouds.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” You turn to watch Baekhyun walk around the corner, his hands crossed over his chest comfortably. He’s in a black, silk blouse, and black slacks. The shirt stretches over his shoulders ever so slightly, keeping it snug. You smile at the fabric choice. He sure has a preference, doesn’t he.

“I’m not such a fan of heights,” you admit, moving back to take a seat in the couch as he asked, “but you can’t deny the view.” Baekhyun nods, crossing the room to take a seat in the couch opposite you. With a polite smile, you slide the papers across the table, and sink back into your seat. “I don’t know if you have need for the receipt of the mini-fridge, but I thought I’d make sure. And the other bundle was sent up by Haerin.”

Baekhyun nods, and crosses his one leg over the other, quickly flicking through the pages. “Ah, taxes, taxes and more taxes. Of course.” He smiles, puts the papers down, and catches your eyes as he gets more comfortable in the soft plush. “Well, thank you, Y/N. I could have gotten them on my way down but still, I appreciate it.”

“I also,” you swallow, putting the envelope in front of him with a slight blush, “wanted to return this. I can’t just accept a sum of money from you, Sir. It would go against everything I stand for and I just… wouldn’t feel comfortable accepting it. Though I am very grateful for the thoughtfulness that you have shown me.” Baekhyun’s smile falters for a second as he opens the envelope, glancing inside swiftly. He places it back on the table just as fast, his mouth corners twitching.

He stands from the couch, and walks around it to stare out the window, stance casual but screaming authority nevertheless. “I hope you like the socks at least. I saw them last night and thought them quite cute. Don’t you agree?” He glances over his shoulder to look at the black socks that cover your legs today, and then at you, eyebrow lifting in question. You nod quickly. “I’m glad. You looked cold yesterday.” He turns to face you. “Do you know why I started construction on Heaven’s Gate in the first place? Do you have a clue?”

You stare at him but are unable to give a useful answer, instead picking at your skirt. “No, Sir.”

“Because I wanted to build the highest building in Asia. That’s the only reason. And investors were kind enough to see the opportunities that would bring and helped me bring it to life. Point being,” he smiles, leaning over you a little top pick the envelope back up, “I have so much money I don’t know what to do with it anymore, Y/N. Do me a favor, and take the money?” He holds the envelope in front of you again. You stand up though, and let your arms hang limply to your side.

“I can’t do that, Byun Baekhyun.” You bite your bottom lip, but stay stubborn, even when Baekhyun’s eyebrows shoot up in an amused frown. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a company lunch to attend. I hear it’s being paid by the Boss himself, and I wouldn’t want to miss it.” You ignore the way your stomach flips when you walk towards the elevator and get in. Just before the doors close, you catch Baekhyun’s giggle as he walks away. You hope you didn’t just lose your job, but hey. Like your parents always say, ‘Don’t let a man buy you what you can buy yourself..’ You smile as you go down, crossing your arms over your chest. Not even a man who makes billions a year.

Safe to say that when you arrive to work after the weekend, you’re more than a little surprised to see a huge bouquet on your desk, a beautiful mix of pinks and reds, with in the middle some sort of golden ornament. You stare at it blankly for at least a solid minute, enough to have Bea creep up behind you. She squeals when she sees it, rushing over to slap your arm. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. How romantic is this?!” You frown, and bite your lip, before shoving it a bit to the side. You don’t have a boyfriend. Along the side hangs a little tag, with the familiar scribbly handwriting, though this time a lot neater. ‘Please bring a stapler up to my penthouse, floor sixty. I’m in desperate need -B’

You roll your eyes, but take the stapler from the drawer under your desk, and stand up. “I’ll be right back. Apparently I need to bring Mr. Byun a stapler.” Bea sends a questioning look but nods, and waves at Haerin as she enters.

“Oh, Y/N,” Haerin blinks in surprise, “I thought you weren’t going to show today. I heard you’d be busy. I’ve already called Minhee into work for today.” You pout, confused. Had you been taken from the schedule to bring him a stapler? Really? You just pull up your shoulders, and look at her, just as lost. “Maybe a mistake has been made. I’ll check.”

“I’ll go bring Mr. Byun his stapler in the meantime, then. If I don’t return, assume I’m busy. Or dead.” The girls giggle when you walk past the reception to make it over to the elevators again. The journey up goes peacefully, and a lot quicker. You exit into the hall, in front of the pretty white door with, you guessed it, gold handles. Was it really necessary to get you to bring him a stapler?  Still, you knock, and wait patiently for the door to open. It does, quicker than you imagined it would. In front of you stands a half dressed Byun Baekhyun, chest still bare and his hair still damp and sticking in wild directions. He takes a step back, to let you in.

“Ah, the stapler. Great. You’re quick.” He doesn’t wait up for you to follow behind, and leads you into the huge place. Top floor might be gigantic compared to this, but you might even prefer it. It’s a two story, for one. Dark steel beams hold up the second floor and make up the staircase, giving it a classy but industrial feel. Still, there’s chandeliers left and right, glamming up the room. You spot the rose-gold sink, and swallow. Right. Rich. You hand him the stapler after catching up with his steps, not daring to look over at him yet. Baekhyun just smiles as a thank you, and picks up the bundle of papers from the dinner table in front of him, entirely out of glass except for the dark steel frame. He makes it a point to staple the bundle in your view, and nods. “Perfect, it was missing just that.”

He hands you the staple back, before moving through a door to your right, as you follow behind blankly. That was why he needed a stapler so damn bad? For a single bundle of paper. Baekhyun soon returns, after having put on a white button-up, a lot more casual than you’ve seen him up till now. He adjusts his watch once, before beaming down at you like he’s a kid on Christmas morning. “I didn’t expect you to come so quick, but that’s okay. We can grab breakfast, and then go on with the day after. I have a meeting at 5 but should be able to make it for dinner.” You blink. Breakfast, dinner? Your face must give off the clear confusion you feel, because Baekhyun pauses. “I need to get a present for a friend, a surprise. And since you were so helpful on Wednesday, I thought you’d make a great model for my shopping spree.”

“Oh.” Is all that comes out of your mouth, as you watch Baekhyun dig through a drawer full of car keys, picking one out and tossing it to you. He smiles when you catch it, and pauses in front of you, giving you a one over.

“You’re going to get blisters walking in those all day.” He motions his chin to your shoes, and turns around to make a thinking noise. “Follow me, pretty please.” He leads you past the kitchen and past the stairs, to another room. It’s a giant walk in closet, which makes your mouth drop open. He walks to the far side, and presses a button to have the shoes rotate and disappear, making place for new ones. “Here. I get a lot of presents from companies, and get a surprising amount of female clothes and shoes each year. You can pick some you like.” You make a noise of disagreement, but Baekhyun grins. “To wear. Today. Just today. Don’t get all worked up.” He moves to leave the room and tuts his lips. “You’ll get wrinkles on your pretty, little face like that.”

You decide to just do as he says and pick a pair of shoes to wear, settling on some gorgeous black ankle boots with a slight wedge. When you walk out, Baekhyun looks up. His eyes rake over you in silence, long enough to have goosebumps break out on your skin. When he looks away, he nods, and gets up from the couch. “You look pretty.” He motions you to follow then, and leads the way. You just know that if he keeps acting this way, you’ll have to quit. You can’t fall in love with your boss, and knowing you that is definitely going to happen if Baekhyun keeps this up. The damn man is too charming for his own good, and he knows it. You follow behind the handsome man begrudgingly, not forgetting to leave the stapler on the kitchen counter as you leave. Stupid stapler.

Turns out, you’ve never been in a Ferrari before. Also turns out, Baekhyun drives really fast, and by the time you get out you must look like a threatened cat. He parks along the side of the road, because why worry about your car being stolen when you can just buy another the next day, right? He walks over to open the car door for you and holds out his hand, that you ignore out of shock and maybe a little because of the car ride. He smiles though, and points towards a petite shop, that looks very expensive even from the outside. You follow him, ignoring the potent stares of the people that pass by, and thank him as he holds the door for you.

Baekhyun tosses his jacket over one of the tables, effectively claiming it, and walks toward the counter. “This is my favorite breakfast place.” He nods, glancing over his shoulder to watch you. You hum and take in all the delicious pastries that are laid out in the display in the shape of a heart. Baekhyun straightens, and looks outside a second. “What looks best to you? I can’t choose.” Everything looks good, you can’t blame him. You do notice that there’s no prices anywhere to be found, which always means it’s overpriced. Still, you hum.

“That right there, with cherries looks so good.” You nod, and look over at him. “And the chocolate truffle thingie.”

Baekhyun nods and smiles, before turning to the lady behind the counter. She has a bright smile on her pink lips, black hair pulled back in a tight pony. “Good morning, Mag.” He drums his fingers on the glass display. “I’d like the usual, and the cherry pie and chocolate truffle cone for the lady.” You turn to stare at him with wide eyes. This little… Before you can intervene, he takes your hand and pulls you to the table he so elegantly claimed. You’re put in the chair, and watch as Baekhyun slides in opposite you, a proud grin on his lips. You have never… met a man this extra.

The woman comes to place your plates in front of you quickly, as you thank her profusely. You keep a glare on your face at Baekhyun though, as he takes a bite of his chocolate chip muffin. When he sees it, he smiles. “Look, I ordered it now. Will you please just eat the damn thing, or are you going to let it get thrown away?” The woman returns with the last place, which just has strawberries, a light pink instead of red. You follow her with your eyes a second. Yup, this place definitely is way out of your budget. “Y/N.” Baekhyun mumbles, as on cue, “It’s my treat. Now please, stuff something in your mouth so that I don’t feel like a huge asshole.”

You sigh, but pick up the little fork, and eat a bit of the cherry pie. You can’t stand the idea of food being thrown away. When you chew, you’re very glad at your decision. It’s seriously heavenly, and you almost moan at how good it is. Baekhyun smiles in accomplishment when you eat too, before putting one of the strawberries on your plate. “Taste one of these too.” He motions, as he picks up his coffee. “They are my favorite.” You kind of don’t want to give in to all of this. Of course, you can’t help your curiosity, and pick up the baby pink strawberry. You pout, a full on puppy eyes-pout.

“It tastes like money.”You mumble sadly, looking at your shoes. This sends Baekhyun into a laughing fit.

From the moment you enter the shopping mall, you feel out of place. Everyone here is dressed to the nines, and while your work wear is far from cheap, you feel silly in your name tag. Baekhyun doesn’t seem to notice, leading you around the place like he’s ready to visit every shop and actually buy things. You sigh. You suppose this should be fun, but it just gives you stress. The bill for breakfast was fifty thousand won, and you now feel a strong need to pay Baekhyun back. He doesn’t need it, but you do. For your sanity.

Baekhyun enters a jewelry shop then, dragging you along. He’s too giddy about this. “Who is this friend of yours?” You instead mumble, and look around the shop, careful not to touch anything.

Baekhyun is looking into a glass confinement with shimmery eyes. “She’s been a good friend ever since I first started. She’s getting engaged so I want to get her the best gift she can have.”

“The most expensive gift.” You blurt, looking around the shop.

Baekhyun turns, frowning slightly. “Not necessarily.” Your cheeks get warm when he sends you a little look, one you can’t immediately decipher. “These products are so expensive because they are made from great materials, by great artisans. Which is why I don’t care how expensive it is. I want the best for the people I care about. I like spoiling people, I guess.” He walks over to the counter and says something to the person behind it, before turning back to you. “Is that a bad thing?”

You don’t answer, though you feel like shaking your head. Instead though, you come to stand next to him. You wring your hands together in front of your lap. “Is it true?” Baekhyun just stares. “That you pay the company lunches from your own account?”

“Yes.” Baekhyun just nods, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I wouldn’t be anywhere without the people who maintain my company. Treating them is important.” You pout, and look away. So he is that sickly rich. “Why do you look so shocked?” He thanks the man when he returns with more necklaces, and turns to you instead. “You do know I make billions every year, right, Y/N?” You don’t. Well, you suspected it, but hearing it come from his lips is something else entirely. Baekhyun seems so normal. He seems like a normal, kind, if somewhat annoying person. He matches entirely to the image you had of him, and not at all at the same time. You don’t know how to feel about that either. Baekhyun, seeming to know you won’t answer, sighs, and taps your arm gently. “Here, I need a female opinion. Pick one.” At your glare, he smiles, and holds his hands in front of him like a shield. “I won’t buy it for you like I did last time, I promise. It’s really for my friend.”

You sigh, and turn to the necklaces, checking each one carefully. If this is what he took you out to do, you were going to do it to the best of your ability. Your eyes land on a dainty little necklace with a single diamond in the middle, and from that, two that would fall down the chest. It’s a gorgeous piece of jewelry. “That one.” You point, glancing over at Baekhyun again. He stands pressed next to you, his eyes on your face. You tuck your hair behind your ear when you notice, and look at the floor. “That one would look really pretty on any girl.” Baekhyun hums, and picks it up gently, holding it between his slim fingers. He takes a step towards you again, and nods.

“Brush your hair back for me.” The whisper makes you stare up at him with big eyes. You look at his shoulders instead when he smiles, and brush your hair from your neck. His arms go around carefully, leaning into you so close you can not only smell his shampoo, but also feel his breath dust over your shoulder. He flattens your hair out a little, and takes a step back. All the while his eyes are on yours. He pauses, and then nods. “You were right. It does look really pretty.” When he takes the necklace back off, you hold your breath, heart beating against your rib cage steadily. A small curl comes to the corner of his lip when you squeak softly at the coldness of his hands.

He places the necklace back, and nods at the man. “We’ll take this one. Please package it well, it’s for a gift.”

When you two leave the store, Baekhyun taps your arm. “Here.” He pushes a small pink box into your hands, different from the black packaging the present had. “This one is for you.” You open it carefully. Inside, is a thin golden necklace, with in the middle of it a tiny little glass-like shape. A diamond bird. You look up at Baekhyun, who is a few steps in front of you now, and swallow. You can’t accept this, can you? “It’s a reminder that you can get over your fear of heights.” Baekhyun explains, his hands in his jacket pocket. “Everyone can become someone they dream of being, you know. I didn’t start with all this money either, after all.”

“Baekhyun, I-”

“I thought it was Mr. Byun to you.” He smiles, before looking around the huge mall, and then back at you. “Please just take it? It’s a present, okay? And more than that, it’s a request. I’ll drop you off in a bit, because I don’t want to hog you all day. But I am taking you to dinner tonight.” Baekhyun smiles when your mouth drops open. “If you say no, I’m not going to fire you, don’t worry.” He shrugs, and sends you another blinding grin. “If you say yes, it’s a date.”

I cut it here because super rich!Baekhyun made me go a little off track and make a huge ass fic, so there will be a part two to this. I hope you enjoyed the first part, at the very least.

If you liked it, please let me know by sending me a message. I’d appreciate it so much. I’ll try to get the next part out as quick as I can, so that you don’t have to wait too long. Thank you for reading!!

[40ozalctears]

the sweetest kindest little ringing remind or ashtin or spooked rabbit keeper sweetest, spiteful my vices ahh!her luv damn. why!

The cause of harm is the greed and not the farm that you arm your weakest prodigal son, in the wake of a maybe fatal frigid Hellscape frozen over the hold over Queen majesty - when all they want is the monarch taxes back - like do u rly think the easy dirty easy money like stealing, type super  funny, honey its sweeter than the milk and soft as the spin the scar tissue hard. Trust me, the watching who hold hate close to the knowledge of the madgods jewelry is stinking of lunacy, from the quiet kind boy behind the monarch stark cast of Godlike endless hatred rage - take it from the prophesied leader of spirits who know prophesy fulfilled when he listens to to the whistling of ancestor spirits. Shh. Pawned so many rings that belonged to wrong ruler and song girl bringer of here. I am  crystal clear that I am the Belle the Gaelic attempt to keep it super sly and secret. Keep the sharp teeth wolf boys feel. You use the hints and kinks in the story is so old to known to young unsung but done as done prophesy is - stuck in a state archdruidic sickening states of being wasted on the loss my rightful throne and every hidden secret locked in the labyringth in Gothic leviathan cathedral bearing my Gaelic, as the eventually overthrown Roman blew in the gail winds of fading traditon, until no one listened - French, drenched in gas so the most certain ancients know that the young stuck between wolf with teeth perfectly shining, glistening like misshappen young Bellovaci younger holy boys who were just always in a feral state as this, to purr and meow and give the serpent hiss in the name of making your place certain beneath more primal - I relinquish the dirt that just sits in the sink, until I relinquish link to like the hoops in the ear that would claime me the the arch-druid so sickly addicted to every little drink that is as ichor of death, to be anything but self assured in the word of the lycan simply lurking. Stuck between sprint, torn denim, more wolf than man, more Perfectly evil than pleasantly Godly like the most ready to know the foam that forms when see see her have their beloved dark black long hair sheared like wheat and chaff before the wind - like the sick should fall to the bloodied slice of the sickle - for less obvious matters, let the frigid whisper of winter being fickle, just enought to tickle the just to depravity. As such, the little who felt the eyes of boy who circled the edge of town as if he could not exist if not considerign the sting of monarch moth never more than a state eternal failing - the bread of a war machine God called Heaven, and stole my lost profit lost cost of certain life - being stuck in the state of eternal decay, which I studied and loved until I travelled under and dug, and built a man made moat just so you and your favorite things that makes you a sweet thing, and I would let your eye widen as the Sun dies again, for how many nights we d did not fight against sleep, as if it was impossible to not see the glow of the her slow in the bright of the certain doom and the looming harvest of farthest mens beliefs- understanding them from the wise who came far from the East, and so when I fed on what I studied to be the understanding of the love of another that was as fulfilling as shared cute snack that feels like return of the hero, but no great war - just what she stored I locked in impossible chance of ever being forgotten in the permafrost frigid acceptance that my ribs form a page that is nothing short of permafrost accounting for the Godliness of Loss - so for all the simple beauty and the cutie doe with the fawn eyes who I saw forever in a way, sleepîng on a hateful yawn, and as soon as she wakes, blinks, yawns, I steal her from the fate of never escaping the state of eternal maze - by which I named my first son already the Scarecrow Prince who will only  know keeping away crows, and those who know the harbingers of death, if you trust the call of keeping death then you invite again the flow of euphoric state of moon blasting through, like it baptizes you new under the last name you gave as you noticed her lose the tame, like a newly free thing who was only knew cage - I suppose many act as they should as if they ever only knew rage - for all labyrinth trap and reasons of setting traps for the unwanted seasons, so in the sickest of seeping Spring I know one ring keeps me sharpening teeth, and assured that the meek not sheep for the weak of the word, but the deared dark-eyed soul  that I saw tending to to contraption that was asked to keep us in safety, and just as the sweetest of sickly sweet thing that makes all lycan boy, between and here and there was a maiden, one of iron, one which was so tired, that it tired me, even in my infinite gift of plan to hatch the love of my own twisted roots of oak until I am choked by the end of my joke that is just make the sweet doe eyed in the man made moat I spit this as quick as a slit I would made, but it would take little more me to riddle a liittlle harmless threat, with the debt of what is owed to the protector of Queen of all that I have seen more goes than majesty, tragedy that it had to be you, and I saw her look away, but I think she was keen of a certain sense to know I was such a penniless who could spend endless words for you learn that it takes as such, that you get as much as you give, and even to keep her breath steady - you not  take your never ending, butterfly wing, malfunctioning thats most fear but she hears vibrated like like quiet of the hum and summer nights - and so for me take the claws, fix both red stained glass eyes, wide as severed - ways to explain that it painful to say that given what I have scribbled in the hieromanic of trance, and I cannot sing and and dance like I do not having to call for the Fall of Man, just every plan of man, no matter well maid, always led themselves, naked shivering, exactly to the step of my trap, which I simply set to wet my taste that in my heart the start of the most bright exploding morning flail - the believe that mourning any distance bright candle simply doused by the petty candle lick, quick-witted way the light of your life might just decide one day, in its trickery, sickening mastery of things more man than a boy who finds join the acceptance as wolf more always in between, hurting and dirty for never truly becoming, but since in absolutely delightful beauty quiet she floats on the wooden boat, Singing in tongues what might be the meaning of death in  ending of sum - in that if speaking trying to make sense of the sounds is beyond the bond of human to the satisfaction with simple humanity, not having grasped the the roots and found how to shoot start out of the sky on  a night  so loud from the crowd of surrounding pounding drums, of those fat-bellied fascists, who heard word you of your solitary goddess too honest to ever say she just believes without being knowing as so many, too-knowing will claim until they slain the in the name of the lie - I remember the Ilai, Eli, of course...a a lie, I have thought the less real lamb that stood as she stands, as he landed on the peak of Golgotha, the Aramaic was perhaps soft on the dying son confused by the plan of the Eternal, that when the nails jailed themself to a cage of childish rage, in his purity, in his fury, the absolute terrifying baring of teeth, from a thing more than a man who we only know as the Italian son of a man who weaponized the need, of knowing the idea of the Son, asking the father for a taste of Honey, as burned to death due to fault lines in the times conflict, the Son would consider, despite the nights in wild, where I was the child and babe possessed, nearly the Lord of Death - given mastery over connection to Father, God, the peak of throne - just as the wildest time I ever came close to perhaps becoming too full in my how MUCH my teeth bled as I felt them become blades, that only most alone lycanthrope knows that in a statone of alone, given nothing but instinct, and the nonsense worthless broken porcelain that looked so wrong in it raped poor, sad fatal estate, as the rate increased and the feast my own consuming of stars in the sky forgetting the name of the Hatred of the idea of my meek littlle priestess - seeped in my need of simply believing in Queen, should the Kind pawn and not think for a again, at least inn a state of knowing it staying put in insanity, instead of grasping at the fact, so beautfiul but tear-filled years and years of waiting, Hating the need for blood spilled -  sip on sour cloud break int raped time I believe I must drink the blood to avoid the or, some prophesy that is as misplaced as a poisoned chalice, or even living in a palace, as I lived in what i make an intricate safet confusing little maze of a cluttered and dimly lit clean as can home fit for as modest and as the innocent stern deity who submisses to no dismmissing of her strength in the way the drenches the weak in the their defeat - became as haunting, piercingly loud, as if thhe crowd of the rage of a forget tradition of boys lost in the most deep of Belgic, someone some-where look like the Sun King withought the messes of lost den dwellers wishing for one gem laden gauntlet of a boy so Shining finally given the palace where he stood like the final piece to the puzzle, but any failed watch maker who understands the importance of the love and  acceptance of failure - to sit in silence as loud as the sound the once-dead no piercengly quiet -only tickicking the old heiroom , alone in the darkest little steel  box of lock between myself and what seemed to be the reason i even kept any thing dirty, having a penchant for ugly, as it is easier to hug, with unwarranted terrible pain, that if I should given a shame all the was of the certainly nervous and tall nothing but simple boy, who kept strange so deranged and misunderstood, the closest I ever became to command I then claimed over how we become the beast we studied, the most, so le loup garou je troube q c maps mal nous tous les jeune honnes, donner in the grace of the silliest stiill alive-ancients, I remember waking to up the nothing but fear, clearly awake, before I considered that the stuck between stations of dashing and springting with tongue out more in between than ever, and severed from reality like nape of the rapist of health, who deserved exactly how painful it is to attempt to take the breason of breath of a deathly sweet little thing, that I had no quarrel, with so many inner-wars possessing my core, this came as 2 and 2 would naturally come to one who lives for another but must act out of of absolute focus on the swarm of locust, of channeling the hate the state of still convinced of weak willed humanity always grasping back to the need to such greedy with our grasping little human disease name our most useless scraping of kness, simply to not exist as mist with a debt to death, that will never be paid until in your maiden, somehow still, as sweet and, as opened like the intricate lock, who only ever talked so soft, though never stern as if to teach those who do not know how made the young boys go when laid bare to the fair skin little thing, and the presence of something listening, lurking and working on the moat, so he has a place to return, that I earn the trust, as my mane because the the River Styx by which the depth of how trim ourself fur and how soft we pur, keeps a little thing like, what seemed at first to be weak little sheep, who watched as i watched, weeks on weeks. i think think of the God Army who drew blade in the name of those who came most like there before - brought about the strength in the week after week, until walked tilted in the way of a wolf, though alone, mostly likely believed a sort or auditory glitch cast by the shadows and  tossed at me like a joke of a bone, simply to give me the idea of home, that I would her here still quietly, but so softly as sweetly - something I wanted to ask but was terrified to even utter to to no one for nothing in silence, she awoke the new sense of 6 all together as one, and for all the boy so scared of the swinging like moon in the sky, when i was convinceded of something tied to things not allowed to those who do not have the raising of dead, all i think id like to just try to return from..if not the grave than the furthest forgotten part of the den, where this story and meaning began as it ends - just a way to say i know exactly why you know what i knew, and i hope against hope i do not lose sight of the memory of you - because although forever boy  -with vices and plain as a night with just white rice and help help of her so harmless little smirk and a wink, that made the pendulum brain that swung like i as hells  bells were insane - as in not quite normal, as normal we love - it all seemed so normal until we were visited by boys, who saw the goddess of seasons in this simple quiet absolutely shierking riot of so many ways she would love, to  tell you all the the words she knows you think of them too much and so when, just when become so accepting of the power your hatred of having to wait - to just wait until the gates by which you always would return her staring, although as if, withouut casting you a spell of  smile, you stop and and look at pacific clearly piercing blue - that for all of her tears that welled up as after 20 nights in defiance of any sort of defeat - as is if being apart,though as he deep how the frozen hold outside the jail of you eternally lost, but kept in sigh chest - where i see the mathers failig and erring to say, I know you began as seeming to sculpted from diamond, though second, the wolf second  sum, more loud and addicted to pride than the smaller though, equally capable man, who just because he can run on all fours as his foretold type apocalypse fate, was as interesting fate fatal as the final pale horse her death - and I do not remember exactly when I began to notice, the boat floathing alone, or when my bright as sprayed over faint barely dim stupid quiet was not chrome or calling me home, by my allowing for all - the absolute Belgic Prophecy joke, that began simply as stupid, but in presence of the spooked little rodent type queen - switched names - without asking why, I suppose that in the attempty of knowing how we know how, and by no means do i say this this with hope ,to achieve the same cheating way of reaching such perfect connection life, than finding your reason to not be Hateful of God when god has been failing idea, of the might of the male, that the simple fact at the bottom of all - is that the Fall of Man is silly little becoming the return, of when I think i will deserve to stop trying be either incredibly far, either evil little devil grasping at the need being weak and pink like,a pig, or in the face of death - the forgetting of breath, i do believe i must rememer the name, the message more than sent in house how many ways, as studied as any believer in science, by wise as the misunderstood men in the dresses from east - so in the incredibl terrible rage, terrifying reminder, she is just theperfect little strength of the flood of all time, for the perfect cute thought little whimsical nonsense word spoken in tongues, simply because she said so manu in barely audible cute litttle whisper lispy magical lilt - i do not think i am of the acceptance of born to die,just as in the dying light of the night Moon gave the light on things in tht nearly blackened painting canopy brush - each as deep as the piercing I made - that was not necessary, but perhaps as if if to stay, i will remain close to the hope digging and searching all the rocks and the mud, until I return to just where I was, until I stand to reason that was a man without her seeming reason for me to defend my hatred of each season, but the love the way they all die so quickly as if they know exactly when I am becoming physically ill by not a shift in understanding of her. i think it was ashtin - like the dust dust to eternal rusting of my loss of self into choked back fears until years of years of studying the defense against against anything bent againt I would feel the power of endless power in the little bit of lovely blood, that once again reminded where I began that bit of a dream, that seems a bit too dramatic of anything more than panicking dream. But my word, the rodent she named Oliver, soft and attaching to words like they are herds she saves with  a simple different way slaying their understanding on plain until the unheard know her death when her breath is missed is harshest in the breach iof the rift in the stone dark endless wall how her breath clears the fog, and sends the echoes back home in whisper just a little lisp, little kiss on my lips, a sly wink with an entirely unexpected opening of entrance to entire  too much to look without being to have your jaw slacked wide - as if the little unexpected so quick little joke, make slit the unknown threat and simple bet her slight bit of doubt in my weakness, i suppose she might have had - and although i do not low i crept as the wind  often does, to bring about clouds when the blue is too much of lie for sky to accept - the debt of your once hated seething refusal of death, allowed again to renew simply by the news of the dreams of the queen who was, ash- ashtin. spooked rabbits are just needing one, as so ti goes...the cutest little feets. keeping me in state of accepting my defeat and knowing the tirump of eternal here and there insanity that had me consuming a star, one by one until the undoing on sun was brought about  queen without the way of making thos who crossed the way with evil kept in its sway, had my pulsing blood, as fucked as the hellish dark of black matter noahs boat couldnt hold - despite being ebnt by the old joke - the grace of god - how one man leading the other keeping the Fall as evil menacing as it kept gluttonous fiendish fucking tearing apart all the planes as if to grow greater in danger to the consatnt and terrifying state of new danger of a  maybe hades boy who ddi too much grasping at pinkish shell to let myslf be reduced the feral final story, horror to some but silly little clever story, that had me eating guts and close to none,a dn then I might the final sum, and we only spoked in like poetic guessing, and, and riddle spun in the funniest little nonsense tongus and you could lose all sense and sight of self -  i think i saw a glimpse of her tasteful, when I cried so long into them moat, that if she left for how I protected her and her little, then just as I took gathered all then found all colorful shades of Easter hues, I thought how she would look up look from some written words - that I know she I loved had never heard - and every time she looked from from the blue, i learned something from the eyes in the books and words i never knew - just to put me where I need to be, to clear pulsing pride from bloodshot, sclera  slit like tip of ice - just as if to say - wolf - what was it! Doggy! DOG BOY!  To catch up to me in my stupid race, and give me exactly the bitter taste of how much she knew in calm and little lil just barely out the pink ishupon which quit the pyre lit - as when I took at the happy easter colors, and I CURSED her named, and named her killer of every color - now that moat is turning black, and the sky shows all the suns so much at once, that at the zenith of the apex boy - little predator muttering all nice sweet letters, because in the frantic end of choice - you not much of choice in - when you you your eyes and count to ten youll wake up up not  stuck in questions asked, so many times that the night  is just the final break day, where eternal empress who claims her seat - only kept around by the spare and rotten, which the boy who always knew, that he hated any end, but not than he seethed at the types of you, who always approached the little lamb, with no regard for how she lead the herds, or which she spent the pitch black birds, with little lick of lips and tonguepoked as if to say, I dont to scary you - its just the way I bite! To make you wonder, and faint and make you beg for me to say that I am not dead, in the native tongue of keeping me tracked by not enough breath to explain - stupid lungs cannot keep up with brain! and so just as I felt the clear the moat around the little steel trap cottage,which in intense dreary clarity pain, I remember how shed always up though the softest sweet soft cooked rye break eyes, which I would break with woodlant carcass, dead, but this type sweetness reminder of her would keep the memory so fucked a blur, that when I needed the guidance of the hiding empress, Ash- Ashtin. I remember her important on the fidget little wind up nature - of the small ones but must be scare, and when i was so close to something more - I do not care for the letters  and their and tried young symbols, I forget how just, a more recently learned cast in iron, attempt self to make the pariah undertood - by way of building the knee sout of rotten would - I do not think or remember or cared cared - to ever do more than simply stare -or imply what youd so quick succinct, without the fear or  drink at the brink too many silly drinks to death, I remember how the static how she just threw all havoc in side my head, and I do not think how it was crackling snow on snow, unlike other other little question that I knew to do, was I given the absolutely never allowed chance - for the lady priestess who herself who so clean of pride - that she took the form of something so  weak in stature - but if was was real ash or rabbit, spooky rodent or wahtevr oh no dew! im so close to new water on the grass - she would say something  something equal  smart - and in this i knew i shaped my heart in form which i recall our elbows linked, and in this, the sotry clinked, like chainmail just so perfectly made, that when i closed my eyes ans the ring of pearl blue simply slain - by knowing that the death of pain,would be cutting the story short, just who had long forgotten why he kept me weight alone - under earth and across the darkest emerald thicket where in the almost dark drk of calm cool breeze - it almost seemed that something she jagged knife told me so many times in a way defeated, there are so many you times you rhyme your want with rotten meat - each time so produ to drop your pittace at my feet - id notice things id though she keep to herselp, like ifif she heard a sound that sort of clicked, she used all her little rabbit nervous, and look at the place that sound had surfaced, shed dart her eye look up and down, i swear to god the became possesed ttha little - as if this tiny little secret might have been some unknown weakness of myself, and sense ofsilly self alone, or how she hated to admit - as if she only felt my  tense and nonsense wit, and how id  spit and drool some nonsense shit, when perk and smack my mouth,and when shed calm and look all normal, shed twist her eyes so deeply wide and locked the a perfect socket into mine, like the human little shaky princess off the greenest ever dark shadow shade - that robot intensity was if her closest thing to shame, as if she knew when  returned the secret little glen, she hated when i knew she cared  - as if she knew the stupid end, and hated the love and silly nickname as though she did not think the the first name fit, and we spoked and we went on and in the game of just the longest song, which always began with us just screeching cute littl sounds, until, shed begin with A, as if to see how w eboth felt to do, with eah little letter we knew so well,and I remember an ANNOYINGLY loud, and I liked to do things just know with how id b so glad to know want cares, for me to be sory of follow hey very little cutey challenge, so i held her given named above her head - as if to bring her to my secret little home - and anoint with strangest deepest love warming feeling - until corner her with feelings -until were both so dumb kid squealing, I corner her with her given name , as she was the one cutie types, no matter silly im am, ur the dumber piece of stinky dumb dog pudding slung so poorly, like its barely even taut at all - that the only time we were said such cute little things, that rhyme together, are so dreamy perfect, as im not sure if we even rhymed at all, but in night as our giggles turned to cackling tearfilled calls, we would end just other begins, just as simple sum as dipped in depth as deepest why crying over the dimming sun is oh nopers! as shed often say. id hear here do her beauty cutie thing where shed say, the type pitter patter nopey nopers, until l my hopes are all in where I hope she keeps the darkenest wait, so quickly lit with razor wit, that right before i sleep for the firostin so long again - she finally has me brawling crying out for the light of lights to not go out, that a final word shared just before accept hoh nopers dannnnnngit! Dange gangly nooonopers! as she just liked to she how silly she could sound, but when wanted to bring just edge of life, and making the queen the jewel of the dirtdog simple, the priestess of the brightest secret light, who ended each and every night, with final thing if to jsut a silly tired thing, and I rememebr one really faded in to greatest chipped old fade- in the love of the little fidgety way, that on the dirst in central little metal room - enthused by how it felt like such a lovely tomb while drifted in and out of sleep, everytime id come back to awake, shed be staring directly in eye my eye, or even wake me up with her fucking Hey! Fuck you! type ofpicking at my skin blackhead whitehead or little red think she could pick, as if me not knowing  thats shes afraid that i dont know,,that even though the little snarky rude type silly teacher preacher joker stoker of the loving flame - she thinks mentioning lame is stupid all bark mr neutered bad dog! lil piece of crap.  n then, feigning sincerity in sweetest way possible her eyes roop and he strts talkin all  sorry andloopy  , and says super very slow, i know for a fact shes spitting on my eyes oh my loird this absolutely silly evilly queen of jokes, fuck stoked the fire so i know my f;ace, and im just as i tryin to mutter - wh..are you..spraying your nasty stupid spit  on my f-f-face.I know exactly how but why id even why this stupid little chunky  chimp do do anything just on a silly whim - to prove chance, that although a very loud annoying little yappy annoying dog, and based on this i would  and must always let her win. even when shed really make me start to cry  because i thought about how she would either disappear or either disappear of or be gonetoo long 2 diappear - or just be ok withou withou the fear-  gone too long and just because intilledwith fear until she calls me stupid just all day long, sometimes sall ur silly things get to me way deeper than they ever should - just because i feel my knees creaking like crutches with twoodworm and the rotten wood - but when the sweetest little knows im a bit too sh turns from stupid annoying silly thing, worth all the waunt gather in the form of my simple fear of the obvious big unspoke thing if we were either prepared or knowing that the beauiful haunting song, of hows omething would be lost, if we simply lived all boring quiet, because in teh certainy of her going i umumumum. I dinnot say YOu are..STOOpidn, i sad you....are souping! souping out! and i stop and i realize exactly why I go....oh...yeah? and i start laughing... and gasping and  hey ashtin. for all the metaphor. what do i have to do do for spooked rabbit self to pitter pitter patter. I suppose I know what’s been the matter

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prostitution isn’t work

in response to this article:

so the claim here is that prostitution is transactionary. no disagreements there. the question is, what is being bought and sold in this transaction? is it a service? or a product?

Sex work – not that radfems would ever use the phrase – isn’t viewed simply as a commercial transaction but rather, as blood money exchanged for abuse that can only ever happen in a world where women are unequal. That selling sex somehow reduces every woman to a commodity, valued exclusively for the extent to which we’re found fuckable.

is letting a man you dont desire have sex with you “doing work”? if that is the case, then why to prostituted women become less desirable “service providers” as they get older? wouldn’t their experience make them highly sought after, as is seen in other service industries? and if it’s apparently a skill (rather than a surrender of bodily autonomy), then why isn’t it taught in schools? why don’t we teach children about butchers and bakers and prostitutes?

why can’t you get a diploma in prostitution? why doesn’t it need to be taught at all? the job is compared to miners and minimum wage earners but those people need training to learn how to complete the task, prostituted women require no such training because sex is not a skill nor a service, it’s an act of intimacy.

if a man goes to his accountants office and finds his accountant passed out on the floor, he can’t get his taxes done. if a man goes to a prostitute and finds her passed out, he can still do what he came to do, because he doesn’t want a service fulfilled, he wants a body to control and exploit. this transaction isn’t about doing something for your client, it’s about letting him do something to you, which is not the same as providing a service

Radfems love to present testimony of industry “survivors” who were abused as children, have substance abuse problems, mental health calamities, or have experienced bad industry treatment and are now abolitionists. Heavy reliance on such testimony is severely problematic.

As revolting as it is, every industry is full of women who were abused as children. Why? Because the numbers of abused women the world over is deplorable.

Welcome to neoliberalism where presenting evidence and statistics to support an argument is “severely problematic.” Every industry is going to have some proportion of women who were abused as children, but none are as high as they are in prostitution:

Associations between childhood maltreatment and sex work in a cohort of drug-using youth

The prevalence rates for abuse in the sample were 73% for physical abuse; 32.4% for sexual abuse; 86.8% for emotional abuse; 84.5% for physical neglect; and 93% for emotional neglect.

Juvenile Prostitution and Child Sexual Abuse: A Controlled Study

The present study indicates 73% of prostitutes were sexually abused in childhood, compared to 29% of a control group obtained in a random population survey.

Prostitution in Vancouver: violence and the colonization of First Nations women.

Seventy-two percent reported childhood physical abuse, 90% had been physically assaulted in prostitution, 78% had been raped in prostitution. Seventy-two percent met DSM-IV criteria for PTSD. Ninety-five percent said that they wanted to leave prostitution. Eighty-six percent reported current or past homelessness with housing as one of their most urgent needs. Eighty-two percent expressed a need for treatment for drug or alcohol addictions.

Early Developmental Experiences of Female Sex Workers: A Comparative Study                                              

Sex workers described both parents as less caring than did the OWCSA women. They were significantly more likely than the OWCSA women to report childhood sexual abuse. The sex workers were more likely to have left home early, to have become pregnant before the age of 19 years and to not have completed tertiary study.

Adolescent prostitution in Canada and the Philippines

45% of the EX group and 23% of controls had been abused by different assailants on at least two different occasions; assailants were a biological father for 21% of the EX and 4% of the controls. Of the EX, 73%, and 46% of the control group were abused before age 10; 45% of the EX and 2% of the control group had been abused continuously for more than a year; 43% of the EX and 6% of controls had been abused on at least 20 separate occasions. Of the EX, 80%, and 12% of the sexually abused controls had experienced intercourse during the abuse.

Sexual Abuse as a Precursor to Prostitution and Victimization Among Adolescent and Adult Homeless Women

The results suggest that early sexual abuse increases the probability of involvement in prostitution irrespective of any influence exerted through factors such as running away from home, substance abuse, and other deviant activities.

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If the sisterhood can support my decision to swallow contraceptive pills or terminate an unwanted pregnancy, then there is a duty for them to support my choice to have as much or as little sex as I like and, if I so choose, put a price tag on that sex.

Decriminalized prostitution, where both purchasing and profiteering off of prostituted women was legalized as well as the act of prostitution itself, has been shown to increase sex trafficking in countries who have implemented it (x x). Many sex-posi feminists argue that this is because of a safer reporting atmosphere that artificially inflates the recorded instances of sex trafficking, however that theory fails to explain why countries who implement the Nordic model, where only the act of prostitution is decriminalized, don’t see a rise in sex trafficking.

We live in a society where every right a citizen has imposes responsibilities on the rest of the citizens in that society; you don’t have the right to exercise your bodily autonomy by punching another woman in the face. You also don’t have the right to exercise your bodily autonomy by helping to perpetuate a cycle of misogynistic abuse that harms literally millions of women and girls all over the planet. You can’t claim that sex work is work and then also claim that selling your body is an individual choice with no externalities; morals aside, that’s not how an economy or an industry works.

Coerced participation, trafficking and lacklustre working conditions are used to pad out the claim that no sex worker has truly chosen their toil. Not only is such an argument predicated on the false-consciousness argument so intoxicating for radfems, but it pretends that sex work is some kind of special case; that sex work shouldn’t exist because there’s certain labour that simply shouldn’t be sold.

Prostitution is not “labour” and purchased sex cannot philosophically be consented to; it is compliant sex, at best.

Point to any industry and there will be examples of bad practices, abused workers, and unsafe conditions.

This is simply not comparable, no other industry has the same risk profile as prostitution in terms of type of harm suffered nor prevalence.

Welcome, my friends, to capitalism. This doesn’t make trafficking or coercion unimportant issues, but equally, it doesn’t make their presence in the sex industry a special case. There are no shortages of industries that need better oversight. But equally, in no other industry where bad practices exist do we ever talk of abolition.

No kind of oversight is ever going to make the sex trade an acceptably   harmless enterprise to women. Bad practices don’t just “exist” in the sex trade, the sex trade is a bad practice. There’s literally no way to make it good. The vast majority of prostituted women are trafficked and coerced, and guess what? If they didn’t exist, the sex trade would collapse because of lack of supply. If only privileged Western camgirls and high class off-street prostitutes existed, which is what non-coerced non-trafficked “sex work” would look like (in theory, statistically even those fully consenting women will experience rape and sexual assault while “working” at some point), there would be a ~90% undersupply. And then what do you think would happen? Would the millionaire profiteers of the sex trade throw up their hands in defeat and walk away from a cheap (or free), easily sourced product that can be sold hundreds of times over? Of course not! The sex trade literally could not survive without rape and exploitation, the same cannot be said for any other industry.

Criminalising an entire industry because of isolated bad examples takes away choice from free-will participants and justifies doing so on the behaviour of abusers. Doing so is victim-blaming and paternalistic.

Under the Nordic model, only buying sex or selling someone elses’ body for sex would be illegal, prostituted women themselves wouldn’t be criminals. Those “isolated bad examples” are the status quo, they’re not rare or exceptional in the slightest. The free will participants of this industry are a minority; implying that the rest of these women are just going to have to suffer so that the privileged minority can do what they want is paternalistic, and saying that women are treated badly in the sex trade because of “isolated examples” and not the underlying dynamics of the industry is victim blaming.

Prostitution and Trafficking in 9 Countries: Update on Violence and Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.

We interviewed 854 people currently or recently in prostitution in 9 countries (Canada, Colombia, Germany, Mexico, South Africa, Thailand, Turkey, United States, and Zambia), inquiring about current and lifetime history of sexual and physical violence. We found that prostitution was multitraumatic: 71% were physically assaulted in prostitution; 63% were raped; 89% of these respondents wanted to escape prostitution, but did not have other options for survival. 75% had been homeless at some point in their lives; 68% met criteria for PTSD. Severity of PTSD symptoms was strongly associated with the number of different types of lifetime sexual and physical violence. Our findings contradict common myths about prostitution: the assumption that street prostitution is the worst type of prostitution, that prostitution of men and boys is different from prostitution of women and girls, that most of those in prostitution freely consent to it, that most people are in prostitution because of drug addiction, that prostitution is qualitatively different from trafficking, and that legalizing or decriminalizing prostitution would decrease its harm.

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In the radfem imagination, for the selling of sex to be understood as so very horrible sex is understood as having special properties; that it can never just be labour like any other, seemingly because no other job necessitates so much cock.

First of all, the aggressive cock talk doesn’t do much to combat the perception that critiques of radical feminism are often underpinned by lesbophobia. Doctors look at cocks all the time as a part of their professional occupation, and radfems don’t object to that, because a service is being performed in that context and neither party is harmed, nor do they receive sexual gratification.

Radfems apparently find it inconceivable that women could actually chose to have contact with a penis they’re not in love with. That having random-cock-contact could actually be found fun or lucrative or even a preferable use of one’s workday than toil in a factory, a lecture theatre or a coal mine.

Casual sex is a pretty common thing and it’s not exclusive to the sex trade. The choice to enter the sex trade (a choice made be very few participants) frankly is often underpinned by a history of sexual abuse (as evidenced earlier) and associated with certain psychiatric disorders (x x, the pattern of causation is tricky but either direction supports radical feminist theory) even in wealthy “developed” countries like the United States.

Aside from that, purchased sex cannot be consented to because it’s sex you wouldn’t be having if you weren’t getting paid (you might be having sex with someone but not with that specific individual), not to mention that the whole “selling a service” argument kind of falls apart if you also claim that the sex you’re selling is consensual. If you’re selling a service, the receiver of the service decides on the circumstances of that service fulfillment.

Such views aren’t grounded in women’s lived experiences. They fail to recognise that quite a few of us not only really like the cock, but that having contact with it doesn’t necessitate “giving ourselves away”. Instead, they rely on a moralistic opposition to any sex that’s had in quantities greater than every second Tuesday.

The quantity of sex is not the objection, and the implication that sex always involves cocks is interesting. In any case, you can enjoy as much cock as you want without prostituting yourself, this seams like a false equivalency.

And they use terms like “sell herself” as though, at the end of the transaction, a woman has sold off a body part. Cue Catholic school metaphors about virginity loss.

I suppose “rent herself” makes more sense but it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

My worth isn’t determined by how much sex I’ve had. Equally, having sex for money doesn’t change me as a person any more than teaching for money or writing for money does: we each sell our time – our labour – to the market

And yet somehow people who teach for money don’t experience far higher rates of PTSD than the general population

Sex work isn’t an industry you have to love, nor is it an industry you have to find empowering. But love and empowerment aren’t things we ever expect of any other industry either. The sex industry doesn’t need your admiration, but nor does it deserve your condemnation.

Any industry that relies on the suffering of women and girls to servive deserves the condemnation of feminists. This is not a difficult concept to understand.